The feeling floods out of him into nothing. He smiles sourly as he goes numb, all his emotion leaving him and into his words. He puts himself through Hell so he could reach Heaven, his pain keeps him from hurting. The enema of pain overtakes him as he writes, losing all connections to his world. He's done crying, done hurting. He writes faster, growing increasingly euphoric as his pain bleeds out in ink. Everything else is forgotten to him as he writes. One might call him mad, but what does he care? His speed grows even more an he lets out a bitter laugh, now free of all his suffering. But still he writes to escape everything that may cause suffering. Unable to stop, his hand becomes a useless blur and his words jumble together and become empty phrases, void of any feeling and unable to be interpreted. But he continues to write, unable to stop himself for even a moment. His hand starts to bleed as past cuts reopen from their shells. He continues writing, unaware of the bleeding. He finally manages to let out out a deep breath and slowly his mind begins to slow. He slows down his hand, his outburst of emotion withering back down. His words retake the unity they first held, and he lets go.