The Decay of the Angel - Yukio Mishima

Perhaps, he sometimes thought, he was a
hydrogen bomb equipped with consciousness. It was
clear in any case that he was not a human being.
Tōru was a fastidious boy. He washed his hands
any number of times every day. Constantly scrubbed
at, they were white and dry. To the world he seemed
no more than a clean, tidy boy.
He was indifferent to disorder outside himself. It
seemed to him a symptom of illness to worry about
wrinkles on another’s trousers. The trousers of politics
were a sodden, wrinkled mess, but what did that
matter?
He heard a soft knock on the door downstairs.
The superintendent always opened the badly fitting
door as if crushing a matchbox and came stamping
up the stairs. It would not be he.
Tōru slipped into sandals and went down the
wooden stairs. He addressed the pinkish form at the
undulant window, but did not open the door.
“It’s still early. He might be as late as six. Come
back after dinner.”
“Oh?” Frozen for a moment in contemplation, the
undulant form moved off. “I’ll come back, then. I have
lots of things to talk about.”
“Yes, do.”