In a moment of violent "inspirations", he pushes them away when they get too close.

It is his regularity, the faded, peeling wallpaper on the house ready for demolition. Pushing them away stops the wrecking ball just for a few brief moments.

A moment of silence for deceased first impressions, death to what dreams used to be, crows lick their beaks, ready to feast on his tired, restless eyes.

And perhaps his blindness would make this all a little brighter.