darkness swirled around him, forming an armour of self-defence he was never aware of. humility kept him in his place...slowing going out of pace. he shrieked, he screamed, he shouted...but none of his voice was heard. it was muffled beyond control and he felt like a filthy loser on the face of earth. he wasn't the first of everything, neither was he the last. he felt like someone was toying with his feelings and sanity; felt he was stucked in the middle of a man-made complexity that he was unsure of in the first place. doubts rises, undoubtedly raises fear alongside whimpered thoughts stored in his body. the control he used to gain withered slowly from his grip, he could feel it leaving his fingers, draining in beady trickles. he used to laugh and cherished life but since on that day, he never felt his ending so blatantly produced itself on the edge of 10:39pm. life's now filled with boorish stares on the walls and mindless doodles covering every page he could get his hands on. he once wrote, "make me a penny for twice the amount gained for the blind and hurt". big red jagged letters formed on the front of his badly tattered couch which demands new furnishing. he was obviously beyond rotting decomposition and may just be well off living in a cemetary. truth was, he was already in one.
may 1456, he died of an unknown diesease which would be later known as insomnia