Mosquitoes cannot reach the harsh and frigid climates.

 X is a “thought-artist;” he rises with existence, lies down with existence, and monumentalizes nonexistence by celebrating it in his solitude. Then he enters among people: their worship of money, their hunger for fame, their sexual fetishisms, their astrological beliefs, their madness for cosmetic injections, and their social-media polemics. He listens intently, waiting—perhaps something might emerge that speaks to his inner world. He waits the whole day. And what he gains from this waiting is nothing but mosquito buzzings. Then he retreats again to the mountain peak of his solitude. For mosquitoes, after all, cannot reach the harsh and frigid climates.