Freedom, that he always thought was outward motion, turns out to be this inward dwindling. — John Hoyer Updike

His insides are beginning to feel sickly. The pain of the world is a crater all these syrups and pills a thousandfold would fail to fill.

Thirty-six years old and he knows less than when he started. With the difference that now he knows how little he'll always know.

All men are boys time is trying to outsmart.