I have decided to move slowly, yet carefully. I theorise that if I move a little, then eventually, I will be able to move an aggregate lot. It seems that I have been avoiding this, in hindsight, relatively simple measure on the basis of raw impatience, arising from no practice with patience, arising from thinking at breakneck speed in contrast to this plod-a-plod setting. Patience engenders endurance, and how can I endure such an action if it takes far too long? Far better to, as the impulsivity that floats apart from my mind and spills quite a lot of itself onto my actions and larynx, simply lie there, practicing a practically equal result in all practicality with luxuriantly less effort. The lack of effort seems more valuable to me than the result – indeed, lack of effort may be a result in itself, and a wonderful one, I am convinced. Often, I rue it, but now, it is what I do. Others may go about their tedious business and tend to their illusion of productivity but I, oh, I shall lie here and know with unprecedented clarity in this particular period of time, oh, I shall know that I achieve about the same as the average soul, and I am merely lying. Truly and merely. For it is all mere. That is the hint about your success; mere, mere, mere. What an arrogant ratio, to give me this superiority, and the knowledge to appreciate it! Indeed, it would be quite tasty if it were not built on a comparison with other people, which is not so decadent, and I shan't indulge myself, for it is a sour dish with no luxury: interpersonal comparison is a commonplace endeavour.

But the fact (fact?) remains that I have decided to move – slowly, yet (yet) carefully. This assumption arose to me at some point during this period, probably recently – my conceptualisation of time is quite unclear, as is all (all?). John was in the kitchen, or at least he claimed to have been when he visited me. I was able to produce a wavering image of a room with some dimension, perhaps the greyish structure of a counter, and further brass-coloured, blurred shapes hovering some feet off the ground – shelves, John mentioned shelves, but I thought that his teacups were varicoloured? The dishevelled state that my consciousness seemed to be in seemed to sink, with this simple proof that I am not who I am, and indeed who is to say that I ever was who I am, or if I was who I am, or if there is an I am, or an I, at any point? But that involves far too much systematic thinking, working through each question – and further questions cropping up from that; it is truly an avalanche once you get going; but since when am I afraid of information and its consequences? – and I simply cannot, and it would only bring more proof that I cannot, and in the end, who is to say that what I am is a cannot?

I cannot do a thing. I cannot focus. I may have just phased out for a while. Or was I procrastinating? Who shall know (know)? And indeed, I must say: I had decided to move. I made the decision. Whether I possess the stamina or endurance to go through with it is a matter for the matter that moves, which does not matter and indeed that is why I must move, for to lie is to be superior and commit to the relatively same work with relatively (in a different state) lower effort, and that is why I must move for what a commonplace ideal that is! But however commonplace it is does not alone spur me into movement – oh no, it does not. I lounge on a couch and cannot think; is that not a commonplace event among the masses, so commonplace that they have integrated it into their everyday? No, something inspired me, and inspired me in a way that felt bland and robotic and not at all inspired, not the way I used to be, if, in fact, I were an I.

For John had just returned from the kitchen, the place with the brass splodges hovering at shoulder-height, for me if I were to stand, but not for John for he is quite shorter, and John had just returned from the kitchen. He asked if I wanted to talk a walk, as usual, or have a bite to eat (his verbiage; I shan't take credit – that would disgust me further), or a cup to drink (need I point out to you that he refers to fluid within in spite of poor syntactical grasp? Probably so), and then he spoke of medicine. That is the label that I put upon this particular one-sided conversation, as I can only detect opaque shifting beyond that marker, and can recall nothing (nothing?) else.

But then I remembered – remembered! – that his hand twitched. In the… laboratory. With the steam marks and cancer spots on the ceiling. His hand twitched. It twi-twi-twitched. Just a little movement. Nothing (nothing?) more. Twi-twi-twi-twi-twi-twi—

He was frightened when I mirrored him. I was not even aware that I mirrored him. How was I not aware? I, the Napoleon of observation? Was it a sign? Was that the beginning…? I should have been frightened; not he. Why would he be frightened?

He spoke of medicine. You thought of twitching – nay, you remembered. He was frightened later, the medical man. The only link that appears to me is drug addiction. Twi-twi-twi, the scrape of the latch against the lighter, sparks a flame, just a spark, just a small thing, but was it not the small thing, the spark, that set all this off? The small, unobserved thing that caused the architecture to come tumbling down? You do not know. That is a blatant assumption from the musing without evidence that originated before. Since when do you mix up these kinds of things? It is nigh difficult to mix them up, indeed, as I do have no (no?) evidence. But I managed it. But it is a twitch. A small thing. I am a small thing. A small event. My lying down does not matter, my movement does not matter, and neither do I, which I always (always?) knew, so it is a small thing, a small event (small?). But thereby: the twitch. It occurred. And John was frightened. And it is a small movement, ever so small, and it made a medical man frightened, but I would give untold amounts (for I shall not tell you) to be able to have that twitch back. For then I would be able to move; however small I may be. (I?)

Perhaps, then, the course of action – indeed, action! I have always (always?) relied upon mentality, which is, in its own course, action, I suppose (since when do I suppose?) – is to twitch. Just a little. Just the twitch of the hand, to mirror John in the laboratory, where I often find myself, straining to see some vividness, to stress to imagine some clarity – and mirror myself, indeed, mirroring him, and are we not all mirrors? Perhaps a mirror may tell me who I am. (Since when do you rely upon externals?) I relent, then: it would not tell me who I am. (There you go – making assumptions again, based on musings without evidence.) I relent, then: I do not know. (I do not know! Since when –) I cannot.

But John visited, and he is visiting, indeed, he is visiting now – he just returned from the kitchen, that brassy domain. John! I ask you: why the twitch? I twitch my lips.

"John…"

There is a sound, although I cannot feel my lips move. There is only empty space that has a, with unorthodoxy, sense of numbness, a bland, opaque one that is a little swollen and shimmers a little along its curvature.

A moment. I think (think?).

"Sherlock, did you speak?" Very quietly, on both counts.

I cannot. Work up a response.

"You okay?"

I need to twitch. Make a small movement. Who knows (knows?) – perhaps I can then leap up, envigoured, and continue the everyday inconsistent with all else's everyday! (Since when do you take pride in being different from everyone else – and thus, meriting yourself based on other people; involving them in your existence?) But I am impatient. Of course you are impatient. Did we not ascertain this… a while ago?

"I want to be better," I whispered.

"You'll get better," he replied. His tone was unnaturally abrupt. (Unnaturally? What nature do you know of?)

There is a distinguished difference, both significant and one that I could actually discriminate. (Don't get ahead of yourself. Impatient.) Be better. Get better. Be get. Begotten. It is caused. I caused it. Did I cause it? Did I cause all this?

But there it is, the impatience again. Be, get. I want to be better; but that external figure, that form of lesser bias (since when is something on the external superior in general society's view of higher thought?), denotes that I must… get there. Twi-twi-twi. I cannot.

But, wait! (I am using an exclamation mark - what illusion of vigour!) The laboratory ceiling… the spindly, spidery cracks across its surface… is this particular segment of time not centred on mirrors? What happened to the pressure of my fingers upon the cracks in the lounge, that reflected the narrow ruts in the leather? They used to rest upon them; it was a time (time?) in which I was assured that the laboratory event existed, that my mind was once whole; and then they moved. Somehow. I never got them back. I never got it back. I never… my mind has never… I want it to come back. Oh, I want it…

But they moved. Not far - only a small movement. Almost a twitch. Twi-twi-twi. All it takes is a twitch, and the reassurance can return. And perhaps my mind… oh, my mind… can…

Impatience. First, you must get there. You must get better.

The laboratory. John. His hand twitched. His hand… twitched. And I mirror him. This is about mirrors. Since when is it about the external? Since when is John so important?

"Sherlock…" His voice is grey.

I cannot feel them. I cannot. Twi-twi-twitch.

"Sherlock, you're twitching again. Please, stop. Stop twitching!"

No. I cannot. But this time, however poorly conceptualised that may be, it is not an act of lethargy, of hopelessness. It is a rigid and controlled one. It is a sensation I miss sorely, and it returns, oh, it returns, in a faint and ghostly replica. Perhaps there can be a return. Often, I rue what I cannot do, but now I can do. I can do. I am inspired; a bland and robotic inspiration, but it is there. I am there; since when can I feel when I am here? But there is something beneath my fingers, the tiny spikes of narrowly torn leather, the thin, spindly cracks; and as my fingertips drag across the surface, I feel dust, which may resemble steam smudges, and small, round mould spots, all akin to the decorated overhanging of the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

"Sherlock, please stop twitching. I'm going to have to sedate you."

No, that cannot do. I lie around a plenitude as it is. I am inspired to move: it may be mere, robotic, a ghost left over from a past of illusive productivity, but it may be a small thing, a small I, that sets this off.

"No, thank you," I rasp out. It is yet a whisper. Impatient. Do not bid me so; I try. "I… would like… to focus on you… for a while longer…"