Consciousness being a thing created likewise continues so. So susceptible to his surroundings our old Fishface, one eye blinking, glistening. It stands like this, he thought, standing on the threshold of his studio apartment, life and the world are separate. And where together, separable, But perhaps neither from the other entirely. Oh dear, wavering abruptly, what is this about? Myself or everyone, everything indeed. Angelo, the little bumface monkey, should his weight have been greater would have sent him tumbling down the first flight of stairs. But no fear of that, a playful push, get on! So they left and locked the door, and descended the stairs, painting equipment across their backs. Sometimes I forget what a paintbrush looks like. Writing implement in the head.