[He is entirely given over to diving headfirst into whatever can keep him from an idle life. It is will that drives him, yes, but he harbours a suspicion that the day he stops moving forward towards his inexorable goal is the same one all his sins of the past catch up with him. He has no mirror to face Medusa, he will be cast over again in granite and blown like dust to the unfettered wind.
He dreams of a place an oar will be mistaken for a shovel. But he has long given up the idea of seeing it for himself. Peace is not in him. It has no place in the desecrated, twisted black heart of him. Even here, he has not been able to stop moving. If he is not reading, he is planning, if he is not planning he is talking. Learning the lay of the land. He manages to project an effortless calm, but there is no end to the depth of what sacrifices he has made to embody it.
no subject
He dreams of a place an oar will be mistaken for a shovel. But he has long given up the idea of seeing it for himself. Peace is not in him. It has no place in the desecrated, twisted black heart of him. Even here, he has not been able to stop moving. If he is not reading, he is planning, if he is not planning he is talking. Learning the lay of the land. He manages to project an effortless calm, but there is no end to the depth of what sacrifices he has made to embody it.
So he simply gives her a crooked smile.]
And here I thought I was to build you a ship.