Slowly does it flow through your veins. Choke on your own demise and desire. Wanting something bad enough can drive you mad... getting it can **** you.

He lay there unknown, alone, and ******. Sleep and silence is the only peace he's felt in the last 15 minutes, as important as the last 17 years.

Unconscious states are the least he could ask for. So tired, so undead, wishes are hopeless. Barely breathing, it's painful doing so simple a task. He cannot move, he could hold his breath, he cannot see, he cannot dream.

Unconscious and thoughtless... his brain still works in overdrive. Controlling his lungs, his intake, his ability to live.

Broken bones and tragic endings to persistent stories leave no room for unknowns. Answers to be found have lost their simplicity and luster. The lack of information that matters most can ****** him further into his end.

Shattered teeth and swollen eyelids, black and blue and bent awkwardly at the joints. Does he want to move? To risk is to live, to try is to put forth effort, and to succeed means either nothing, or everything.