He could say or at least acknowledge everything he could experience distinctively, but this amounted to a derisively small fraction of what was going on. His embodiment was a deeper affair than he could be conscious of and he was always trying to catch up with whatever he could learn of it from dreams or random encounters, or by wrestling his thought into worldly ironies of anticipation. This was not so much about control or even misunderstanding but about the ineradicable bias towards treating every situation with the same set of tools, a model of the world mediating consciousness or of consciousness mediating the world. He was always fooled by the thing or the absence of the thing, and could never grasp the extraordinary variability of the context. His bumbling directness would cock its head and look to dreams.