"...Thank you." In truth, he didn't fully know why he felt this was the best idea. But at the very least, working through the process quieted him. But then all the great writers would say that was how depression, or many other wounds of the mind, worked sometimes. Tasks became paramount and simple because no other thinking need be involved.

And to a man who spent much of his mortal life providing, getting his work down, paying to justify the space he took up in merely existing, it was the most natural pattern to fall into. Even two centuries later.

He ate. He'd finished the last half of his sandwich sometime in the night before he fell asleep. It was, thankfully, starting to feel normal again.