[It's his turn to pause now, forced to examine a thing he had always in some way known but never had to think about. Yes, people tend to keep moving more often than not, and when they don't, it's only after the mind struggles against despair to the bitter end. That there was always reason to fight seemed a given, and, like Beckett and defining man against the beast, he hadn't thought to look at it on its own.]

I- ...ah. Yes, we do. There's always a reason. Always a purpose. Er...I think. But, even when we have none...

[He stops, and searches his mind. What happened, when he felt he could not go on? Lucifel reminded him of the stakes. And when it became too abstract for him, he clung to Lucifel. When even he wasn't enough, he still didn't give up entirely. He only seemed to truly give up when death was already imminent. He didn't throw himself at the mercy of the elements, he still survived, even if it was only falling into a holding pattern, looking for...]

How quickly do we invent these reasons, find them in the smallest cracks, or seek someone else's? How often does one act with the purpose of finding a purpose, as children do, or those going through some sort of transition?

[Even as he says speaks, he gets the sense that the more he doesn't say it, doesn't give him a reason why he contests it, the more a lie it is to conceal it. He can't leave it at all philosophy and no emotion. He treasures his mind, yes, but everything stems from his heart. He has to admit it plainly:]

...I don't know how much sense it makes to you. I'm not even sure how much sense it makes to me yet. But I'm- I don't want you to sell this part of yourself short, Beckett. It is a part of you...