Paul could not perceive the passage of time. Present and past were indistinguishable—just one perpetual instant.
With inspiration and completion simultaneous, with hesitation impossible, Paul tried everything. He could write a novel in one sitting. If it wasn’t any good, he’d simply write another one. Instantly. Paul was unstoppable.
But the satisfaction of finality, attainment, reflection: none of these existed. Paul soothed his newborn son to sleep, howled with him on his first roller coaster, and watched him lose his battle with cancer at 43—all in the same weightless, helpless moment. Paul couldn’t hold him. Paul couldn’t hold anything.