The world seemed so hollow through his eyes.
Colors appeared grey; Birds never sang; Food tasted like what he imagined normal people calling "styrofoam"--- Everything was bland. Everything was transparent. Everything was He. It wasn't always this way though.
At one point, he called himself content. Content bled into complacent. Complacency melted to static. Static took form of a fire. After all was said and done, all he held in his hands were ashes. Particles of the "content" he had once called himself were nothing more than a rhetorical theory that burst into flames every time he tried to capture it. Dust would be jealous of how fine a powder his "content" had become.

We knew karma was a bitch, but who knew she held such petty grudges?