With that fleeting fancy passing, he begins his second stint at putting his life down in print. He transfers what's wildly written on paper onto his computer. All his earned, learned, and yearned years of life, rife with strife, come alive on his computer. Every morning he awakes with the next ten or so pages in his mind written the night before. He writes like a man possessed, and he is. He's reliving every moment of his life through writ, bit by bit, and it's wild. Each experience is pushed through the keys on the keyboard. As it passes through him, it feels like it's happening now. Smells and scenes of days gone by are so lucid in his mind. He feels physical reactions when writing them down. His memory now is like a snowball rolling down a snow-covered hill, recanting every minute detail of his life.

He uses coffee as a stimulant. It helps while writing every moment, memory, and feeling he has at every given point in his already-lived life. He's amazed how the memory stores absolutely everything, including the five, no, make it six senses of every living moment of his life.

Timothy in Greek means "honoring God". He always envisions God as all knowing and all seeing, and here he is realizing that truth. His whole life, no matter how tried and tested it's been, has been seen. It's been recorded with every single detail. Not just the experiences themselves; but every thought, every forethought and afterthought. All his words well from being. He records every notion and emotion that arises. Every pain, every pleasure, everything that can be imagined. It's all there, stored in his mind, his heart, his soul. Even every sense has some kind of receptor that stores all his life's energy. Every nuance and circumstance unfurls in swirls upon remembrance.

It's like his brain retains the remains of whatever, whenever, however. He's sure, somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, his passing-through of the birth canal is registered.

The whole experience is magnificent. A beautiful possession. Surely artists must feel this when inspired. He is an artist. He’s experiencing what many in the field of creativity feel, just maybe a little more than most. He’s so possessed he presumes he’s to be a proud Pulitzer Prize winner. For months, he’s self-absorbed in the truest and purest way possible.

Fueled by coffee, tobacco, and the momentum of what he’s already written, he continues to vent until he’s spent. He then transfers his entire existence electronically, from his computer onto paper by way of his prehistoric printer.

When he prints out all he’s written, he’s stupefied to see the story line literally has a line drawn, as in dashed, if not gashed through each word, of each sentence, of each page. More than 98,000 words of an abridged attempt at documenting his life is ruined.