Riddled.

"Arghh!" He cried in frustration without any evident sign on his face, but lifting both hands up in the air. "You mothafucka, you are a damn mothafucka and I hate you for being who you are! Whoever you are!" He paused before adding futilely, "Know that?" Then he ran a hand through his smooth blonde hair as if removing the invisible patina of frustration formed on his palm from his generated anger at the voice infecting his mind. "Why can't you just be someone else? Someone more happy. Someone more happy and optimistic about these things I have ventured upon on my own." The voice putting forward the questions - the voice of his conscious mind - knew he wasn't going to get an answer anytime soon. He had hoped he might trap the undisclosed, random caller into an answer which would reorder or rework the synapses of his mind to better organize the stream of working order to the flow of traffic in this particular metropolis. But that was always going to be hopeful. It was always going to be just a dream. Just another free dream. And so, with plenty of dreams on the horizon, but with no construction taking place to build the future he was trying to construct for a way forward and out of this place with no meaning, he simply repeated the words which he had chosen as the mantra to his lonely existence in the sphere of the collective unconscious: 'Resist Science.'