Matthew sits with his fingertips at the home row, his pallor overwritten by iridescent computerglow. His music is paused. A significant amount of time has passed, and he hardly knows how to close the gap, to sum things up, to handily crystallize and convey the person he is at this moment or who he has been in the intervening timespan.
Counterpoint looks over Matthew's shoulder. "Ah, you appear to be," he pauses, sighs, "writing about writing."
"I'm trying to explain who I am now," says Matthew, "Relative to who I was before."
"Just list the facts," says Counterpoint.
Biologically speaking, Matthew is a different person: the cells of his body have died off individually and been replaced. Metaphysically speaking, Matthew is much the same. He still doesn't enjoy speaking to strangers, he still feels wildly unsure of even the simplest decisions he makes, and he still thinks most clearly in the quiet hours before dawn. His serotonin receptors still only function sporadically at best.
"I don't feel like that's very useful," says Matthew.
"What's left to say? We'll fill in the rest later!" Counterpoint says, and then leans over to unpause the song.