The easier question would be what didn't he think about. Himself, the world, the people in it, his past, his present, his future. The call of the Muse and the cynicism of Fate, his mutated extra gene on a critical chromosome that left him either half a man or a monster of a female, of unfulfilled longing, perpetual longing, of red hair and blonde hair and brown hair, of fingers that itched to touch but resolved themselves not to. Of clothing that would always smell used and his naive forgetfulness of the dangers of cars and the people who drove them. Of Greek food and Greek tradition and Greek tragedy, of husbands who were brothers and wives who were sisters, matrimony of cousins and their manifestation. Of how he no longer had hair to nervously chew as he hid behind it, and, besides, it made his hair smell when he did that, and whether or not he smelled now and didn't realize it, of receding hairlines and waxing moustaches one minute and wishing he could grow one in the next. Of...

He shrugged a little again. "You know. Just stuff. Nothing interesting."

The giggling quirked Cal's eyebrow slightly, as did the statement matched up with her movements.

"So can be that which surrounds the mind," he mused.