There were minor pauses between the noise, enough even to gasp for a narrative that may elude a necessary connection between voices within and without himself. This was the moment where his flat’s door opened and closed behind him. Fancifully there were times imagined where this marriage might work for him, spurred onward by that august fate he still hoped to identify with as in youth: there will always exist a destiny in words. They were inspired after all, and drawn in part by his willingness to emerge from his ordinary red blanket each morning that covered him from the night. With concern to match each moment lived with the moment just past, his urges and control build upon the other, until he races towards days, then realizes he races the day, until he arrives at his due junction of consciousness; the narrative slows, settles as mist upon air, and resembles a prodigal realization, as powerful and timeless as his oldest memory of humility. He feels comfortable here, riding lines to their indefinite ends.