“Ok, listen Hobo Joe, we need to organize your knowledge, and mystical powers somehow. All this broke lying around, where do we even begin to start drafting the legal loop-hole that will puncture a portal to the sixth-dimension?” you question whilst gathering up the scraps of cut butts from the paper rolls upstairs.
“I.... I think I need a quick hit of FormAllDieHide before I can get my thoughts together,” as he fumbles around his ratty pockets for his magic wand, you smack his hands back into the open.
“No Joe! Bad Joe! We don't need drugs to solve this problem. How do you think you got into this lost predicament in the first place? How long have you been raiding the bleach plant for chemicals?”
“Um... about a century.”
“Enough Joe! We need you to have all your faculties and wits about you! It's time to start drafting the docs. Do we need a lawyer for this, or do you think you can handle it on your own?”
Joe looks up helplessly at you. He's prepped in his mind for this for so long, he's lost in his own infinitely branching tangents. He stands there with mouth agape, incapable of taking his first step down the path to his ultimate destiny. He needs you to nudge him. With a shovel maybe.