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An impossibly-colored streak of orange rockets across his vision and taps something into place in his brain so that he remembers having hands and a past. It's vague, more concept than fact, but he finds the orange again in his pocket all the same.
He follows the line of thought for as long as it steadies him. The orange is a gun, and he found it in a car. He wanted to destroy the symphony wobbling his vision, but doesn't know why he bothered coming inside. The revelation that there's an inside reminds him that there must be an outside, too, where he could get a bit of peace away from all the sound and lights.
He doesn't want peace, though. He wants destruction.
He spots a man in the distance. He thinks it's a man. He loves the man, or he hates him. He needs him, so they can bring the place down. He slides forward on a floor that won't stay flat.
Something looms over the man, and he doesn't know what it is, just that he hates it, with no ambiguity. He aims the orange thing and vomits something bright and hot. The thing he hates is gone when his vision clears, and it's a relief he can't quantify, all-encompassing.
He stumbles on. The man is spinning, and won't destroy everything on his own. He still hates. He goes on.