Odd once you stop it. The drip feed of need. Are demons just doubts and are saints just denial, “Being cocky”, “to flaunt”, just timed moment trials? Stopping and pausing, it’s strange.
The man still sees monsters, Great and unstoppable, patterns so palpable, capitalist scoundrels, socialist mandrills. But fire doesn’t spread any more, doubtless the earth is still burned and things won’t grow for a while. But hedgehogs aren’t curling into ragdoll physics fractals. Do you know what I mean? No churning Charybdis nested in a whirlpool of sucking chaos anymore (well, not on a good day). Like an exiled Jedi, Sith or retired wizard if you will. They had the power, moulded and shaped by it hour after hour. But now it’s a window, a photo, old light, not blood on forehead, breaking bones, the middle of a fight.