Spinning. Clashing. Noise. Hisses, whispers, murmurs, that man is cheating, that woman is dying, that child on the corner just won't shut up, nothing will shut up an it isn't right, there is far too much to think, hear, see, connect, observe, deduce, and it must stop.

Piercing. Burning as fire and brimstone meets blood, the latter evaporating from the heat of the former, and he's sweating and arching and writhing and he's being burned from the inside out, hellfire scorching his lungs, heart, mind, soul, and this was supposed to make it better, not worse, and it hurts, God, it hurts, and he wants it to stop, wants to go home, wants it to be better again and he hasn't felt like this since he was six and had an awful fever but he can't bring himself to care because that hurts too, and - oh.

Darkness. Soothing black silence that accepts him as nothing else will. He vaguely hears the sound of people on the streets but he won't care, can't care, because right now there is peace, beautiful peace, and his mind is quiet and he is finally at rest and it is perfect.

The frailty of genius, he realises in a post-high haze, is not the need for an audience. No. It is the need for it to stop.