ref: b9fbb17c04e4ccfb2021dac818e514351ca8f646
dir: /troff/0108.ms/
.LP \& .ce .sp |4.25i .PP .ps 12 .CW ░ The lateral elevator was still stuck on sideways, so SL climbed the stairs to his room. The coaching staff was strangely AWOL this evening, a welcome absence in the hallway's otherwise pristine blandness. .PP .ps 12 Room cleaners had moved all his books. And, it seemed, removed all his bookmarks as well. He supposed as a sort of commentary upon the general state of his room. Fair enough. .PP .ps 12 SL colonized the balcony with a minimum of fuss. Just him and his cup of tea, not even the folded daily newspaper. The indigenous population of his table had scattered upon first sight of his tattered boxer shorts, surrendering whatever claim they might have otherwise proffered in the absence of universally recognized property rights. .PP .ps 12 SL sat down in his chair, feeling anything but the conquering hero, his destiny anything but manifest. .PP .ps 12 The town had changed since he'd arrived. Nothing he'd actually observed, mind, but it stood to reason things would change, didn't it? Even if only by virtue of his sudden appearance in the narrative. Anyway, whatever. .PP .ps 12 Dull care washed over him, subsiding with the smog as the morning sun burned away all remaining conscious thought. .PP .ps 12 From then to now he hadn't allowed himself to approach the memory of what had come before. Masking such awareness with the background clatter (such as it was) of the hustle and bustle here in town. The ticker tape advanced at intervals, faintly audible in the cradling semi\-silence. .PP .ps 12 The sound was annoying. .PP .ps 12 Who, then, had he been? No one here seemed to recognize him, so he could rule out intersectional notoriety. There were no clues as to his interests amongst the few personal belongings he kept in his room, unless of course you counted the books, which he had never attempted to do. His personal library was distinguished primarily by its failure to establish a clear theme\(emthis scattershot syncretism seemed to be all that remained of whomever he might have been before he arrived here. In any case, he had forgotten the question. He repeated the inventory of his room, twice, each time promptly arriving at this same dead\-end of forgetfulness, and then decided it was time for lunch. .PP .ps 12 .I There isn't much, in all honesty, that can't be conveyed through simple language. .R This was a cornerstone of recovery theory, even though most patients immediately recognized it as bullshit. There was \fInothing\fR that could be conveyed through simple language, nothing that could be conveyed, \fIat all.\fR Each advancing column of society asserted anew this naked poverty of comprehension through the mechanically ratcheting acceleration of immediate\(emliterally, cybernetic\(emfeedback. .PP .ps 12 Just because it couldn't be expressed in words didn't mean it wasn't true. .PP .ps 12 SL rubbed his eyes. .PP .ps 12 Sans visor.