He views his life in the reflection of a thousand shattered shards—disconnected, jumbled fragments dimly twinkle back at him, as if from a dusty mirror.
His thoughts ramble freely, unshackled from logic and unfettered by time. Memories and ideas blend into the soft rope which restrains, confuses and defines him.
The woodpile is his only constant. Decades of cutting, splitting and stacking beckon him back, offering the familiar sacrament of sweat.
Too soon, as it has been with everything else, even the woodpile will recede into the fog, leaving him stranded within himself, only vaguely aware of his longing.