He races to stow away. Instinct advises him to remain concealed until it disappears, and instinct feels right. He is taking cover behind hazes of maryjane — he can't risk being seen. Here is a space to disguise him, until everything disappears... or then again til' the very end intercedes. He is building a wall to monitor him; he refers to the wall as "grin." Great, simply awesome; this substantial can redirect anything. Ideally.
"Emerge. How long might you at any point modest from me?"
Its voices call him and he overlooks them. Matter of truth, he suffocates in a container of gin to muffle the voice. Submerged, voices pass on, or possibly they're stifled. Makes it simpler to disregard them, however makes it harder to relax.
However, it is okay.
He can pass on somewhat occasionally.
"You'll wear out before I do, senseless man. Come to me. Allow me to hurt you."
He's fed up with its voices; he is hearing it all over the place. It's swaying around his concealing spot — any place he goes, it follows. Furthermore, the more he stows away, the more he feels cornered. It's surrounding him. He calls more haze, makes a plunge more jugs, and the wall he's constructed is breaking...
He wishes he didn't need to stow away.
"Stowing away may save your tears, yet for how long? Tears can never be detainees: possibly you let them out or they break out.
"What's more, I hear your considerations — you wish you didn't need to...
"You know, you don't need to stow away any longer, in the event that you are no more."
The devil's voices casket his heart; he is biting the dust to live. He isn't living, rather he's seeing life happen to him.
Feeling the strength of a tied line in his grasp, he ponders internally, I don't need to stow away any longer, in the event that I am no more.
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