Because the sequence is beginning to come clear, beginning to reveal a definite direction, he begins to notice details and events as correspondences, as links with (repetitions of) his past and future. He recognises that this holds a delicate, uncertain danger, but makes small effort to sustain his place as now. Self-destruction is the least of his new possibilities - he hasn't time to sit and meditate the path's divergence, for the one way (there, marked by red neon) has become insistently more possible. (He drags from time to time, but by and large keeps drifting, with the pain of mass, its gravity, his burden of detachment, measured by the space, not by the act.) It's not the fact of losing his advantage; the desire to do so is his failure, and he does desire to let it slip, to shed the distance that he's gained, because it isn't gained, because he knows damn well that every step is further from his aim, is formed towards a gesture that he knows is his to make - useless and, above all, final. He thinks along these lines, stumbles across these lines carved in his humanity, driven by a patience stirring deep within a part of him he'd rather remain unaware of. He can't remain unaware of it; he watches as the gap becomes a symbol, swearing savagely, recognising his reaction, not as then or then, but now. His days summed up by fear, he tries to be detached, and finally refuses to acknowledge the reluctant fate he clings to, though he senses its absence in all but his falling.
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