In the realities with friends and families, he became Helmuth, and took upon the obligations that came with his persona, but for the most part being just kept churning new contexts and new worlds every day, an endless array of possibilities in every combination of details.
Some worlds were so beautiful and so bizarre he spent days, sometimes weeks, going through the same panel again and again, trying to get back to them, and the quantum probabilities translated as refrains, turning the corresponding lyrics into old-fashioned French poems, strewn with repeating lines.
The largest archive of poetry in existence, which had all written itself, was carefully collected and organized by the only being ever to need order and reason - the human it carried in its womb.