God knows, save my soul from the sword.
It goes on, this winding stair. Every tread is new, and already trodden. How many times will I imagine the end...? How much better, to make a life, and be within it. I see myself, what, cutting wood..? Fashioning what, some object..? To imagine yourself, that life.  But this is all it will ever be, we know it. The rain of our imagining always breaks upon every step. That's something, then. Knowing it, something.
So it goes. Well I can report the facts, can do that.
There's Gareth, down the hallway. Was he ever anywhere else? There's Helen. Actually, where is Helen? She has clients round the clock.
It's all the same, then, all the fucking same then. But is it, really?
Ah.