For the sake of each supposed spark.

If I could explain his insanity becoming, imagine: a man tries to evince telekinesis; he does nothing else until he bends a spoon. Eventually he sees it about to bend. Interprets stress marks. Believes it’s worth his time. Believes he’s almost there. Quietly it becomes his enterprise. He races a clock that isn’t ticking. Because of course his life is not like that; his qualia exceeds his perceptions of its breadth. Everything he processes pertains to the spoon, and wroughts his faith that is unshakable.

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