The inevitable conclusion is beyond his capacity to bear. He stumbles from 
the bed and into his private bathroom. He grabs a handful of pills from the 
bottles along the expansive marble counter, hurriedly swallowing them down. He’s
always had a delicate constitution—just another indication of superior
intellect. The pills help to stabilize his physical chemistry, and thus counter 
the deleterious effects of his horrifying dreams. A half-dozen bursts of DeeVine 
from his chromed pneumatic injector temper his emotive upset with a vague, wispy 
sense of euphoria. He sorts through the P-fix BTL chips scattered across the 
counter and slots The Almighty! into the datajack behind his right ear. 
The chip helps restore the unity of his thoughts, his clarity of vision, his 
objective perspective on the truth. Such aid is necessary in a world on the 
brink of social and economic collapse.