Jeff reflected on the tired literary device of observing the events that brought him to this point in his life. Any point which involved centrality in his own will and narrative was undercut by some humbling event removing his ego. The events were not humiliating so much as debilitating and continuously timed at some personally imperceptible but still vulnerable moment in the dynamic stasis of his bodies manifestation in reality. A dynamic stasis for the body itself means a slightly more or less consistent number of cells. For example, in aging and bending, shape and scale change. His personal tenant is that narrative is fiction we tell ourselves to give our lives meaning. This keeps the crushing waves of incoherent screaming and baby babbling outside our sand buried heads, while reminding him the head is the portion of the body responsible for perception. None of us mean anything because each of our narratives is only part of a total plurality we can't conceive within a singular. Even linguistically WE cannot exist in a singularity, there is no WE, which implies plural singular, like lone rangers, when there is only singular. Jeff doesn't deny the US or WE so much as sees the art in the words themselves. That's how he deals with the loss of his legs and best friend, the cosmos thought he was living inconsistently for his actual place in it, thus a correction was made.The word fate is tattooed on his left stump and reason on the right. In contrast, his little brother, which Jeff lovingly nicknamed Antithesis, has que sera sera tattooed along his spine. Jeff has a nine inch dick.