Structural

If you saw Jason, the first thing you'd think was....nothing. You'd probably look down, swipe left, swipe right, maybe attempt to settle an argument with yourself concerning a nine pound bowl of noodles.

He had no friends, no social life, no Facebook or Twitter account. No numbers saved, no family, immediate or extended.
He had his drugs, only his drugs, his bad, bad drugs.

Jason would seek out stories about new deaths from strange drugs imported from dark laboratories.
He'd track them down and buy twice, triple the dose.

Then he'd Mix them, adding alcohol, cleaning products, paint thinner, glue.

...a pee-pie, a pee-pie. There was a pee-pie: the words, round and round. He wondered if others could see them, streaming across his pupils like advertising.

He'd imagined the din would dissipate, time eventually dragging the slider down.
It hadn't, if anything, the noise was getting worse, interfering with his ability to connect.

He'd considered taking more, lots more. But every email had snapped straight back: unable to deliver.

Jason stared out, all the way to the edge of himself. He was circular, edged with red and perfectly flat.

Delightfully, the drug had left him with a clear, magnetised capsule of lucid cognisance. He felt air molecules on him like flies and knew he was never coming back.