still unstructured.

 It seems that way that his pieces lie scattered on the floor, among the dirt and dust. It's not that he keeps falling apart like a house of cards. But perhaps he's still unstructured, unconstructed, untouched. The rebuild has yet to start and it's useless to try and move forward as several pieces. It's like trying to fix a shelf with a broken nail. Its fix is temporary, the effort misused.

And so the pieces need tendering, and even if it forms into something new and different, it would be sufficient enough for living. As for now, he's at a pause, moving but stationary. It's neither a sad story nor does it necessarily mean to have a happy ending. A story, in its simplest and purest form, is quite simply enough. It's his story and history.