Wheeling Gull Isle Ormai troppo lontano

@Bartholomew maybe, if you want? But open for anyone else :-D

Like he promised, he found himself in search of the priest. Thinking of it in the passive made him feel less foolish:

The man was gripped by a need for fulfillment.
He was tangled with a deep sense of confusion.
The things he wanted were unknown to him.

So on and so forth. He looked at sunrises, he was brought to sudden tears. But they did not come easily; more often than not, they seemed to stagnate in the plumbing of his temples, forming thick veins. He busied himself with nothing. It occurred to him that this was the midlife crisis they all talked about, but that would require admitting to himself that he was in the middle of his life.

He had tried taking out his frustrations on prey animals but almost as soon as he'd started, he had stopped. It was far too derivative - no, it was far too deviant. His chin was soaked with blood. He needed to feel secure in the uniqueness of his decline, provided it was a decline at all.

He bowed his head so he wouldn't hit it on a tree branch. The tide was just low enough so that he could make it to the island before noon, if he hurried.