Well, you find all sorts of things in tins. And good god it's like having a conversation with the cryptic crossword.

[Frustrating in that it feels like there's a right answer somewhere - at least, a wanted answer, but these are the kind of existential questions Louis tortured himself with. Not Prior.]

I try to avoid twisting myself into knots of self analysis, it's so bad for the spine. If such a thing exists? [He sets his jaw, quiet a moment.]

It's lonely. And... maybe... not sick?

[Though hes scared, sometimes that the disease touches every part. But no, no.]

Clean. My soul is clean, if any part of me can be.