Thank God for words he was thinking. Words—which did kind of tickle his brain in just such a way, in a good way. And yes he liked that, could count on that, bank on it, lean on it always. Like a crutch or cane, or the wooden handrail out front built for the benefit of his aging father and featuring beautiful sloping finials—plateaued, not pointy, at the peaks—at the tops of the support posts.
Finials. Yes, a fine word to say the least. Not to mention plateaued.
He could lean on numbers too, to be sure. Numbers could shore him up on a tough day or in a moment of inexplicable weakness. Sequences of numbers could be beautiful. One thing he loved was to find meanings in the license plates, pointing out especially when he caught sight of palindromes, notable years in history or future, and Super Bowl scores. Though he did not personally favor American pro football, he had still somehow become the best person he’d ever met at spotting Super Bowl scores on license plates. Of course, in his state the plates usually included 4-digit sequences which was ideal since the majority of Super Bowl scores could be best represented by sequences of 4 digits; had he grown up in certain other United States, he may never have developed this extraordinary skill.
In any case the problem he was facing now, that had been knocking him for a loop repeatedly, was: what the hell was he best served doing on this highly specific day?