Bruno, with hands buried deep

Too many depressing-looking travelers lurk within the train cars of the CTA, there's no doubt about that, but there tends to be one person here and there who greatly showcases their sorrow. A man named Bruno sat himself alone by my left side. I was too indulged with my reading at the time, so deep that I refused to look up and survey my recently added temporary neighbors, that I didn't bother to look over at this man in time to see him before his mood changed. It was then he collapsed into his hands; poor old Bruno, with hands buried deep with sorrow - I did not know what to do. Normally I would ignore a stranger's sadness due to our recent acquaintance, yet the sympathy was too atavistic that I had to move away, for I felt his pain... and thank goodness I didn't hear his cries.
I named him Bruno, because he reminds me of someone from my past.