The flowers hiss. The metal bends. We can't approach him. These emotions are venting from his system at a velocity close to C, energising electrons into nanoscopic bearing balls of death. They rip apart the structure of any material they touch. His anguish. His guilt. His rage.
He is marching somewhere, parting the world around him apart like a molten iron rod through a field of cream. He is going to war. With himself. With the universe.
We can only hope that his path veers away from high density populations. We can do nothing to steer him.
And when he finally pops, it better be in the depths of the ocean, or else one man's poor bill of mental health is going to kill billions.
Paddy Dobson
14th May 2022