Igor went on these walks to satisfy a need to relieve his increasingly oft repeating apprehensive sene of trying to slow the end game.
Having been encapsulated in the foam, the bubble, internally filled with some sort of whitish froth, he needed an escape. Sandra was both: a lucky unearned reality, going back decades, with the growing stupor of fearful leaving, as you were, going.
Going gone. The interpositioning of major themes, specifically of the magical kind, has finally formed the perfect shape of the ring, and the metaphysical puzzle to be solved, of realizing it, had him repeat over and over the mantra of the perfection, as possible state, a possible state to be shared with the one, the one who listens, but whose answer, as coming absolutely as he knew it would, return the kindness here withal.
The time should stop, he raised his request heavenward , and the answer came peruodically, slowly, that the price was great, but absolute, in the frame of time-stop, the illusion it somehow connect with that other, still reality, still.
And that became a frame he could re-create, even amid the crisis of absolute panick and apprehension, the still of going out and coming in alone.
That Sandra was instrumental no doubt, essential, even, there was never any doubt, no allusion spoken, and he reduced motion to its absolute, at first, later forgetting this formula, he was reduced.
The stillness all around, impressions and expressions whirling at ever ferocious velocity, the stillness enraptured into the fog, hidden by the vaporous forgotten e of distance memory.
It was in this manner that he came upon the time machine, and through the ring, into it, that he was able to come out of it, intact, as a recognizable being, albeit with no name.
They were due for the production, the ring, cyclically, as one organism, bewitching with no end, no beginning, and hoping for the incredible whirring of motion perpetua to cease, land him in a scene of extraordinary and fabulous attention.
His plane would leave in one week from today.