He could feel himself—his existence—slipping away, like sand between his fingers, like water through the holes of a sieve.

It had gotten hard to think, hard to hope and hard to visualize a time other than the space of those four weeks and right then.

Shadows danced about his peripheral in a forever-like state. Sounds buzzed in quick staccato around his ears. He could, once and a few, almost taste the sense of abandonment he felt.

He didn't know exactly what to believe—if they worried, if they cared, if they knew—if there was hope.

He let his head slump mindlessly to the left.

'You could have a—'

'No'. His eyes swirled dizzily in their sockets. 'No, I couldn't. I don't. I don't want anything—anything but my life back'.