The next few weeks to a month were sparklingly beautiful. Follies and fallacies had been swept away and all was new. Everything that had a shape or a texture, a taste or a smell was gorgeous, and I felt at peace. Birds swirling overhead made my eyes well up and I despaired that I couldn’t share this with the people busy fingering their plastic rectangles. With hell being other people, this feeling wouldn’t last. I started to feel like I couldn’t communicate properly with others, my friends and family; they’d go on about Dancing with the Stars, the activities of Tiger Woods, what kind of new new new car they were going to lease next. I used to be able to participate in this fantasy, I couldn’t anymore, the banality made my head swim and the hopeless emptiness of it filled me with grief. Morally, I knew I couldn’t chase my vestigial tail and bits of paper anymore; animal instinct and arbitrarily constructed value just didn’t mean anything.