quadrāgintā   quattuor

"Where are you taking me?"

He was trying to make meaning of what was happening to him. He didn't know how to put up with it. He didn't know what to think.

Everything was then making meaning to him. But he didn't know how that could be true. His rage was swelling and he couldn't simply press it.

He was conscious of what to do and was looking to putting his hope on what would be fleshened. He didn't know what that would be.

He was only trying to make meaning of the whole thing. He was trying to place a plague on the emotions and figure out what was going wrong. He didn't know what.

He didn't know how to know what. He was trying to do so. His heart was heavy and he was trying to put all the meaning in a basket.

He didn't even know if that was the best thought. He didn't even know what was best anymore. He was only thinking about what his thoughts could pick.