All this happened when I was young:

I stopped knowing anybody. I waited for somebody to know me. I knew most of my strangers in depth; acquaintanceship stifled this; strangeness had to be the bond. Maybe I was too small to be seen. I certainly couldn’t recognize myself, in windows, for example. I was a stranger, surrounded by other, loving strangers. These others were glossy and knowing: we had everything in common in this dream way. The talking would crisscross forever, activity propelled it, and affection nurtured it. They were all seated above my monkey life, serenely unaware, walking with great strides through my walls. I could only gape. On my surface, everything moved strictly behind my back. It would take the merest suggestion of interest on my part for things to stop dead. Beyond their beauty they had a large investment in spite.