Only that his reasons for climbing have blurred; that he can't remember past his mother's face. He's too crowded, can feel the fingers of the people round him pluck at him (the people round him are too far away to reach, but this one reaches); their glances have become too readable. He has no reason for this assent - he nods, though, letting one approach, allowing borders he let flash fire fall a while. It was, perhaps, the only bundle of reactions he reached out to. A silence of the silent contact sparked his own preoccupations, melding into three distinct components, all unrecognised (and largely unremarked). He feels few needs, now, but is too aware of this. He needs to know that this is right, but contact takes his barrier and twists it, warps the map from which he works. And he can't know that the scale is slightly out, that maps' and landscapes' meetings are unlikely; he refers to one or to the other, never noticing the two together - if he'd noticed them together, this connection, this assistance he accepts, would surely have been hampered, would have been delayed at least. Probably he'd not have started.
( to the contents page.)