Today he felt like a ghost. He reached out to touch something but couldn't touch it. He couldn't touch it because he wasn't really there. He existed on some other plane and was only partial. He lived in the half-life. He couldn't make anything work, couldn't get the chain to react. Nothing happened but nothing again. Again and again.

He thought it was both a strength and a weakness subject to externals. A strength in that if circumstance was exceptional it propelled him, if it delivered it was big-time. A weakness in that if it didn't he was stuck, fucked, good for not much. The weakness was the strength, the strength was the weakness. They were bound in each other.

The half-life was the key. It was the place he had to be. The alternative, the norm, the everyday existentialist pose, he was incapable of now. Until the situation broke that’s where he would remain. It broke or he died. Whichever came first.