Sometimes, he just feels tired, as if it will continue, seamless and indefinite, without culmination or relief. Days differ only in their topics of concern: what does not change is anxiety, the persistent sense that something, perhaps important, depends on this endless juggling of too many small issues unresolved, of razor blades in loose wrappers snicking through the air in an agitated pas de deux with edges and flats, and nervous fingers. Tick, tick, tick: they fall and are snatched and flicked upward, away, but never out of sight. Sometimes, he thinks it will continue like this forever, seamless and indefinite, without culmination or relief. Sometimes, he just feels tired.