Strolling up the hill awakens him each day to the singular awareness that he is changing. He grows used to the walk and what waits at its end. Each day burns into his body the madness he is put through, until by degrees he has become a creature of chaos himself.
How could he possibly see the danger? Already, her edge is dulling itself on him. Already, his adventures become their own brand of mundane. Already, his aching muscles persist for fearing peace.
He has carved from her melancholy a niche, where in fantasies he hides from reality. He is addicted.