It was the thought experiments, which finally drove him away from the passion for understanding the cosmos. On the tourniquet edge of his mind, he witnessed the destruction of his consciousness from inside its grand structure. All the dreaming, all the flashes of insight that once caused his mind to feel heavy as he rose out of bed each night to peer across the night sky, had finally just dropped through the psychological fabric of space and time. Each spark of genius set ablaze a wildfire in the forest of his soul, until the land was barren and his soul charred.
These images course the man now every minute, wreaking psychological decimation in their fourth dimensional paths. His body and the great whirring black hole in his mind’s theater are all that’s left of this once-genius. Oh, and of course the tingling in his scalp, as the sod of flesh and nerves on his cranium wars with itself for the unconscious territory below.
His hair is quite long now. “But, thinning badly,” he thinks to himself, as he scratches his head in an always failing attempt to calm the neural storm he perceives from above. Upon the blue spiraled box, his curiously brownish blue, or are they blueish brown, eyes transfix. He knows there is something special about this item. “And it’s not just because of how it looks, either.”
He whirls around. The sounds of London clang against his mind, causing yet another anguish: aural discordance. These strange eyes of his have a curious quality, or perhaps its his mind, that allow him to zoom in on things as he does. This strange ability was once a great tool for viewing beyond the threshold of the vacuum, but back then, it worked when he intently wanted to see something. Yes, that is how he used to be, after honing the accidental skill and before losing all to the vortex. At this point, however, it’s a power unto itself and he is its master not, as if he’s forgotten how to ride this bike of his childhood.
The box, he feels, isn’t unlike the Palantir he read about in Tolkien. “It stares back at me,” he whispers with his face turned away from the fingers which mount it in his hands in a way not dissimilar to the fingers which hold a rare stone in a precious metal ring. He returns his eyes to the object of mental machinations. They grasp it and return to piecing it apart, as if they are looking through a microscope.