Things have changed since Haruka's unsealing.
One moment, he'd be glancing through scraps of research, browsing a recently acquired book of folklore (or Hasumi's most recently published essay, if he could get his hands on it--Youko-chan had declared them contraband), or even sitting on the porch watching the birds. The next, he'd be running for his desk, needing more than anything to bury himself in his own words. At times they would be a shout, stubborn, determined, defiant--he could never really tell which. At others they would be a gentle murmur as he reassured himself that he wasn't deluded, that his life's work wasn't a waste, that he would find the truth if he just kept trying.
Because it all came back to the Onikui Tengu, in those days.
It still does, really, but things have changed. Obsessive longing for an ideal is one thing; having the reality living in one's own home (or napping on one's own roof, as is more often the case), quite another.
The uncertainty and emptiness that drove him before are still there. It's just that words are no longer enough to palliate them.