Psychadelic-coloured clouds swirled about him; he was no longer aware of where -- or even who -- he was. And he didn’t care. Not in the slightest.
The colours merged in and out, sliding around and through him, becoming part and parcel of him even as he was aware of their differences to his own physical form.
His physical form...
What was his physical form again? Did it matter? No, he decided, it didn’t. As far as he was concerned, he was going to stay here with all the pretty colours and float forever. Nothing commanded his attention here; nothing mattered to him. Nothing at all. He no longer cared.
Colours... There was nothing more important than the colours. They were his drug. His fix. He’d do anything for the colours. Anything for --
What the --?
"Blaine!" The female voice faded in and out between the colours, a jagged knife in the softness. "Blaine! You’ll wake the fuck up now or so help me God --"
A resounding crack against his cheek startled the colours for a moment; they wavered, wanting to stay with him. And then another crack, and they were gone.
"Blaine! I am not carrying you, you great oaf! Wake up, you bastard!"
And over to aylara... :-)