His eyes were as brown as the soil a loved one lies beneath for eternity; the smooth rich coffee beans whose scent when crushed is overpowering for a caffeine addict.
He put on every winter coat that he's owned since ‘98 and every midnight sees the countdown to another awful day.
No longer does he practice writing his suicide note in both print and cursive.
There are times when he listens to the telephone ring and that is enough effort for one day. On rare occasions when he likes to leave his bed, he will pick up the phone and pretend to be the operator on a suicide hotline.
He thinks of unrequited love in colors that don't exist, and shapes and letters that have yet to define the word, "Arizona"; the simplest word of all is also the most difficult to say.