With no light but a glow, he sits and writes. He ponders the metaphysics, the metacognitions of his mind. He envisions banging his head on a drum--on the inside of a drum. He is trapped inside. Every attempt to escape is only an entertaining cosmosecond in a song called "Life".

He can not rest, no, not even these green pastures to which he is led will not make him to lay down. He fears a loss of control to the subconscience; will he be fed more images of entrapment; does he fear loss of motor control, while the temporary paralysis of sleep does its work.

Nor can he communicate. He is isolated, he is feared, he is fearful. Actions and deeds have landed him a title. This title is thought divinely inspired, and guarded dearly by those who speak it. But it is for this title, for the distance in between those around him that he chooses never to speak, never to reveal.

He does however feel. In fact, he feels very much. He wishes, longs, begs to reveal. Though, finds that when he has worked up the courage to speak, that the listener has lost courage to listen. They will ask a question, and will not hear the answer. Nobody wants to hear how a bad day has gone.

When he rereads what he has wrote, he cringes at the thought of having to resort to such blatant means of discretionary revelation.

It's just that he is so lost. If he could pack and go home, he would. He doesn't know where home is.

Homeless, hopeless, restless. He is a wreck.