Micolash, once upon a time, was accustomed to people asking for greater explanation. Expected it, in fact. Being a professor renders it part of your job description.

But things have been strange for him for some time. Some place? How much time? He couldn't say accurately, couldn't even give you an estimate. Side effects of the place he was kept. The time he was kept? Another interchangeable variable. He should be writing these down. There's a sudden anxiety of forgetting that Micolash is now aware of.

All of this, of course, is internal confusion and thoughts and bad roleplay, sorry. Outwardly, Micolash goes through his own variety of thinking faces; eyebrows furrowed, lips pulled between his teeth, deliberate and slow blinking.

"...Explanation." He says it aloud, remembering now what was expected of him. "Of course, of course." A deep breath, gathering his thoughts. "I do not actively seek immortality. Not to say I do not wish to achieve it. It is simply a secondary outcome based on what I so doggedly research. One who gains the proper Insight gains eyes. And one with eyes can see the paths to the higher planes. And those who travel there become timeless. Am I...making sense?" He's forgotten the last time he ever interacted with a layman, honestly.