Thinking of miracles, what is it that his scanned library of almost infinite knowledge, he wonders, could suggest?  All around him, images of thoughts and imaginary worlds present themselves, realities not willing to be ignored as their existence demand acknowledgement, even compassion.  But the Captain isn’t ready for compassion or acknowledgement; all he wants is pure thoughts along with answers.

Maybe, it would be easier to switch off.  Let doubt creep in and remove any thinking that goes around in circles.  He’d give anything for a single glass of rum or for less grey matter to be contained within the walls of his skulls.

To know or not to know…  unless… unless it is to know what to know and ignore?  He muses, wishing for dreams he knows he can’t have, hoping these won’t turn into nightmares although the chances are that they will.  A thick, humid fog begins to filter through and pervade all around him.  It has been too long now that real and unreal mean the same.

The Captain sits there, waiting for the present to pass, hoping to stop the thinking once there are no more thoughts to be had and until the time comes to give up for lack of food, lack of rum and lack of good company, perhaps in a different order.  It’ll be all right, he tells himself, it’ll be all right.  He closes his eyes and imagines the sound of a rumbling engine, that of a train, one contained within his scanned library, or that of a plane, or a yellow bus that could come and get him out of here.

To be continued…

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