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So many privileges… so many pointless ideas about life and time… so many afterthought movements and subtleties… all fallen short of entering that deadpan question that had become his own motivation.

These. such emotional states were all he had to work with. there was no transparency enough to see his own way through. tumbling. tumbling. tumbling. but there must be some other way into the guts of what is left to be said. is this not the life’s task he has set before himself. all the while nobody looking over his shoulder. nobody checking to see if his hands are above the sheets. adrift in the perfection of his imperfection… and he was unable to see it.

(Thus could a focus area be)