Or absconding to the ripe metaphysical merger of L.'s cybernetic city-purdah compassed (as in crafted) if not girdled to the granite skyscrapers of El Capitan and Half Dome wherein or upon a giant herculean eagle would squawk right from the rough-napkin drafts of Harry Potter.

 As boldly stated before, L. suffered from a dilemma; yes, a dilemma--of thinking too much, too hard then not enough.  The dilemma in and of itself--that being L.'s fleeting quest to arrive and, upon such arrival, sustain and from such sustainment, upkeep, provide maintenance genuinely enjoy the perfect day not only in and of itself but equally, fairly for itself.  As one might see, such an endless chain of intentional and then unintentional headaches, which were so basic and thereby essential to the dilemma, disavowed (L. first thought)

from one being able to merely appreciate the joy of what might be the perfect day's most colorable avenues of experience.  L. found the whole project not just in terms of achieving an end but the more meaningful journey itself to be futile, concerning how L. would be constantly monitoring, probing moment by and then after moment as if some vermin from Kafka's burrow.  

L. like Pessoa found himself--sometimes by evening, sometimes by morning, sometimes just before the stroke of midnight taken by the greater quicksand of tedium, unequipped to flow through the moments--overtaken by the dull jaws of disquiet.  Moreover, for the past twenty-three years he thought the whole project to be absurd, and yet the sun would rise as Beckett's Murphy sublimely summarizes, "having no alternative, upon the nothing new."

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