The Kind of Man He Was

He was that kind of man, that classically perturbed kind, prone to all kinds of leering, grimacing, fervent madness, ravished turmoil, he was that kind of man, he accepted this readily, he had questions, he had questions to posit.
Such as.
How is it possible to enter into a meditation without any kind of gaining idea?
Will the perfect telepathic computer one day be invented, able to transmit vast amounts of information thus: (here he takes a deep breath, holds it, exhales slowly, blinking, something ineffable conveyed).
He was that kind of feverish lunatic, sick neurosis infesting his mind, all kinds of lingering resentment and paranoia. He was that kind of man, striding rapidly down the hard ice coated streets, collapsing on his ass, roaring into the indifferent, vastly benign night.
He located his friends and introduced chemicals to his body. Thus his introversion began. Thus his meditation began.
Weird speculations, tumbling revelations. He was that kind of man, kissed by despair, on the brink of an indefinite, infinite glory.