For a moment, he was relaxed and mindless, drifting peacefully, and then his identity returned to him lazily, like an unwanted afterthought.

But, he tried to tell himself, maybe this was just a fleeting interest, maybe it would all go away.

He was himself and he had lost the speed
He started with, and he was left behind.

He that thinketh he leadeth and hath no one following him is only taking a walk.

"He looked a moment at his "unsteadfast footing," then let his gaze wander to the swirling water of the stream racing madly beneath his feet. A piece of dancing driftwood caught his attention and his eyes followed it down the current. How slowly it appeared to move! What a sluggish stream!"

These and other of his words were nothing but the perfunctory babble of the surface while the depths remained paralyzed.

My judgment now is that he was vacillating and undecided in his actions.

The closer he moved, the farther it seemed still.

He thought of himself not as something heavy that left tracks behind it, but if anything, as a speck upon the surface of an earth too deeply asleep to notice the scratch of ant feet, the rasp of butterfly teeth, the tumbling of dust

Because he’s only a little boat looking for a harbor.

He was always on the point of 'going away', where it didn't seem to matter...

He seemed to have no weight at all. There he was winning prizes, playing for the school team, starting a study group. Yet he drew no feeling of importance from anything he did. He floated

Man, when he is merely what he seems to be, is almost nothing.

From a distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist.