After George started singing on the network, that should've been warning enough that anything could happen. He's been keeping away from the instruments ever since that little gem emerged, but that doesn't seem to help him out any. He hasn't got the most spectacular voice, but that doesn't seem to matter.

Maybe you find him on the roof, shoulders hunched around himself, straining to keep something soft and broken from working its way out from the back of his throat:

They say I'm taking it well,
It's all in my stride.
That's what they're saying down there.

That the world is so dark,
When you're unable to smile.
And you can't even show that you care.

They say that I'm getting back to normal,
But I was never at normal as far as I can recall.

Maybe you'll catch him in the woods, an inevitably failed attempt at self-isolation that doesn't do a thing to help when it tumbles out into the open - what's the point if oracles with visions can bleed out just like the next man?

All I’ve got
are smoky rooms and issues
and around eighty seven
nightmares.

All I’ve got
are catalysts and horrors
like the world has never seen

All I’ve got
are coffee mugs and mirrors and halls
and survivor’s guilt
So tell me:
What’s the point in hiding?
They’re just gonna find me.

He grimaces after every song, clearly hating it, clearly hating every word that hints at something much larger within himself: