He keeps looking. Even after all these years. Strange how stubborn the human mind can be. Unable to admit. Or maybe just a great deal of wishful thinking. Maybe even no thinking at all, just acting. Acting on instinct. The instinct of life, the existence of life. The constant search is his and his alone. Room for no one else. I find strange comfort in identifying with him. Makes me feel useful even though his quest is in vain. Whether I am him or me. The one who lives or the one that died.