Had you been personally present for his little breakdown, you might have felt foolish for ever thinking the space surrounding Willis was ever anything other than More Willis, and this is the point at which even us higher-ordered entities would rather cheese it than hover around waiting to find out how much we were also always More Willis, which ironically would not affect you quite as easily, with your ingrown cores and your uniquely blunt definitions of the self. Perhaps that's why some would prefer to consider you "differently adapted" rather than "lower-ordered," but that's not a debate this narrator has any investment in; food is food, if you ask me.
Whatever the perceptual levels at work, Isaac knew a problem when he saw one. In his foggy-minded way, he fancied himself a bit of an expert on seeing things and on knowing what they were, and he wasn't terribly far off, even if it still boiled down to a system as basic as "good thing to be seeing" or "bad thing to be seeing." It certainly hadn't failed him yet, and in this case, he knew precisely what to do.