He was unable to tell whether he more resembled the driver or the passenger. His condition, as he rediscovered it, was indelibly that of the driver, feeling himself to be lost in a vast maze of ways and with scant guidance but for the memory of choices made before, or a blind trust that his vehicle knew its own way, and still having to supply a needed twist of the wheel in each moment. The question remained what point could any of this have if it was not for the sake of the passenger, who sad nothing, did nothing, but was pregnant with possibility? The passenger, relaxed and idly taking in the view from the window, belonged to the point of arrival which when reached would explain the entire mystery of the journey, the point at which he, the driver with all his notes and scribbled maps, would merge back into the passenger with barely a ripple.