It didn’t matter how much water he splashed up into his face his mind was not going to shift and he knew that. He was stuck with this feeling and whether he called it euphoria or paranoia was entirely his own decision.
He rested his head on the mirror above the sink, and to any arriving party it would have looked as though he were locked in a battle with himself, like a pair of emerging rams, fighting for dominance over land they had happily shared previously.
He wiped at the raw hook of flesh he called a nose and tried to remember how things had got this bad, where the spiral began. It hurt to think back, and not because thinking was difficult in his condemned and high state but because the memory was one of death. He wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve and returned to his birthday party.