That first show was ecstasy. The crowd was quiet, both literally and in his head, and each song took him on a wondrous journey. The newfound peace washed over the poet, leading him to places he had not been even before he found himself afflicted with other's thoughts.
It was the most beautiful hour of his life.
After the artist left the stage and voices came back, quickly growing to the deafening din he was now accustomed to. He quickly had a shot of whiskey at the bar and walked home.
The poet immediately looked for new shows to attend every night. He had mixed results. Some music didn't work at all. Some quieted things a little bit. The occasional show was like that first one, and in those times he would softly cry in joy.
He started to create an informal rubric to help him decide which show to go to any given night, based on what type of music seemed to work the best, what kind of artist, the venue, the part of town.
But the moments of peace were too shortlived and the daytimes were still filled with torture. Drink was still required to sooth the sounds of the world, and the money was running out. Between the drinks, the tickets and the ridesharing cost his expenses were climbing, and his income nonexistent. He tried just listening to music, he tried listening to the artists that had worked when he heard them live, he tried turning it up really loud in the best headphones he had. It wasn't the same.