Wryly, "I can bear neither light, nor scent, nor sound, nor taste. Even the movement of Szarka in my lap overwhelms me, and I must empty my guts. The pain belabors me without surcease, sometimes for as little as an hour and more often for the better part of a day. There's nothing like it. It hath no border or shore. It radiates out from here--" and he frees one hand to hold it over his left eye "--like a black and pestilent sun."