‘They’ fed him sedatives to stave off mania yet the delusions continued unabated. Even now, in his cramped garret, by lone candlelight he sits perched on his unmade bed and worries. Worrying has come to be of second nature lately. A worrying born of a heart that had never contemplated a sleeve. Regardless, and in hope it would not cause more misgivings, he feels compelled to read the book the deranged mademoiselle of eventide had handed him in exchange for a plastic cup of hot chocolate, a croissant and a trivial kiss.

The Rough Guide to Life by authors unknown, edited at Constantine’s behest spoke of little that held any interest, little that failed to bore this isolated one, certainly nothing to confirm that any answer was ‘blowing in the wind’, no matter what the maestro himself had alluded to in song. Mild fascination as to the transformation of mortal…

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