The man's a shadow in the square he occupies:

Almost tripping over his effervescet self, sliding out of space.
He doesn't quite cling to our reality, not quite,
Only half-listens when you tell him this or that and even then he's out of sight.
How can you refuse the fact you're hanging by a thread
From this window of the world? Are you blind?
I'm looking down at him, his hair is hot as hell.
The clock across the street reads a number nobody knows but us,
Passersby can care less as it chimes apart their heads;
Why did I try to reel this man back into the room?