Iliad understands.

He counts the hours but it's all a haze: reality has been given a fuzzy new filter to be seen through. Its been... thirty-two, no, thirty six, yes, its been thirty-six hours. He thinks of Iliad. He dreams of Iliad. Iliad, like any goal, desire or unattainable fantasy understands. At least he hopes. He hopes Iliad understands.