The thing is, Herostratus knows the system. He wakes up in a mush of hungover wobbleupdown vomit, slicks back hair clothes propriety and sneaks into a city whose intensity he neither mimics nor understands. This is Ephesus, where he is nothing but part of the crackle and bark of this condensed human mass. Ephesus, a conglomeration of noise and odor and streets he cannot recognize himself in.
This is why Herostratus does what he does. What did they need that temple for anyway? It looks so much more like an adequate offering to the gods alight then it ever did in its natural form. This is the pace of his gelatinous world – changing, burning.
Why stay the same, when he can be something bigger than the rest? Who cares what they do to him – execution, damnation? Those things no longer concern him. He is no longer their kind, anyway.