It took him a while. Long enough to learn freedom, that it wasn’t flight or the fulfillment of desire or even a quiet room with sterile walls. He wasn’t sure that even now he could describe it in terms other than a lift of soul, the occasional moment in which he felt whole and alive and present, truly there and patient for the next hint of rhythm in his living. Freedom, he felt, was knowing just how far the idea of choice could take someone before it proved to be part of a surrounding structure. Freedom meant he didn’t care so long as he could breathe and dream and love because everything else was merely detail. It brought his existence down to the personal, the point of relation between his body and another’s, his hand and the things around him. It meant that not only could he create, but that he was created every day as he woke up to existence, his self a glimmering light in a sea of other stars.