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His eyes were closed and so were his thoughts. The blackness of the night crept into his mind and plagued him until the dawn. The darkness. The distress. The hopelessness writhed within him; a storm who's waves showed no mercy and showed no pity: tossing his soul backwards and forwards. He had no steady footing. The cigarette held between his fossilised fingers burned subtly with its warm ember glow. Ash fell around him like morbid plagued snow. His breath was weak, a mere wheeze: Subtle yet there, like a summer's breeze. His eyes decorated with deep caverns of age: The light in those eyes was fading like the writing on a frayed page. This poetic description was no serving him well: He had become the embodiment of man's portrayal of hell Yet blood was still flowing within his veins And he could see as long as he strained. He was still alive: He kept telling himself: "I am still alive but I'd be better off dead. I would much rather sleep under a blanket of soil instead. But I shall keep breathing for my own sake.