He does not have memories. Merlin-like, he lives backwards. He clings to the present, would make it infinite if he could, but inexorably he advances to the past. Once he woke to flee from dreams. Now he sleeps to hide from visions. If he pauses to study how he feels, the best answer is he feels safe. He does not ask safe from what? for knowing what you are safe from means you no longer are. Forgetfulness is his friend. For a man in fugue is like a beast of the plains that takes refuge in a dense wood. He can move but not freely. Trunks impede, roots trip, briar hooks, mire sucks. He can see but not clearly. The canopy of foliage filters the light and each gust of wind fragments and scatters it. Forgetfulness is his friend and fear is his companion. Fear tells him when to move, when to keep still. Fear shows him how to blend with the forest. He survives by limitation and simple repetition. He makes the unfamiliar familiar by staying in one area. He makes his own existence familiar by following patterns as strict as a square dance.
