Worry for, Smith.
Dancing, he tears muscles and breaks a bone, once, to discover something as he throws his body to the floor. He lets it fall, thinking that in randomness there must be something unrepeatable, but he is not sure. He tears the skin from his fingers to find a sound in music that he cannot recognise.
Because everything is a shape he has seen before, or is the colour of his bedroom wall or the tie he wore to his Father’s wedding.
He wonders, asks and then begs to anybody that is his listening to the noise in his head: what is the cost of something truly unique? He asks, understanding that he may some day be answered, and he will then pay it, again and again.