he longs to go. he wants to see the relieve spread over their face as they free themselves and pass on. yet it does not appear. the violent struggles are not what he needs, yet they feed his addiction. this one, no, the next one must be it. again and again he is drawn to the common spots...
maybe he missed it, maybe the moment is to short. he starts filming it. every night he watches the recordings searching for that glimpse of bliss obsessively. soon he discovers an interesting community of people who share such videos.
too late he notices that somewhere along the way something changed. he pays too much attention to the process. with interest he observes the violent death throws he used to disdain. isn't it beautiful? how they struggle despite all the pills? how they agonize before taking the final jump?
and the quiet, uneventful deaths, are they truly quiet? he wants to see their eyes up close and read their dying thoughts from them. so he starts stalking those meetings... he knows one of the participants will eventually make that decision.
and he is in luck, one of his spy cams captures the death of a young man in his bathtub. the recording instantly becomes his treasure.
after pouring over every second, he starts editing it. it's a good edit, but there is something missing. more angles would have been great...
one day, he finds himself standing over another young man. this man struggled with the very same feelings as his previous observation target. this one had been unable to take the necessary steps, so he had given him some encouragement. still, he had arrived to late. he had the recordings but... book after book he sifted through the intricacies of the human psyche. if he could more accurately predict the time... if he could influence the method... nothing was impossible.
