He goes inwards, looking for his essence, a ledge to hold on to; something beneath all the wanting and opinions and angst and fantasies and plans and grievances and mental detritus of a lifetime; something enduring that will not be subdued, something he can grasp at and say, I was here. Donya. Cairo. His parents. Childhood. His body. Holidays. Tax returns. Zoe. Morning coffee. A desperate attempt to mean something before the lights go out. The smell of grass. A bout of mononucleosis once. The swinging chair in the garden. Guilt. No, he thinks. There's nothing tangible in there. Not really. But
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