Death Grows In Addiction To Misery
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He sits alone as his fingers guide with frighting perfection across each key. His window drawn open, the wind, in its cold presence. Brings his breath visible to the eye, but he ignores the frigid presence of nature.
His eyes fixated to the ivory keys at hand. His senses lost in the beauty of notes that show no trembling from the cold. Not even he, finds himself freezing to the lips of winter. His heart, he feels it weeping with hollow wishes. His soul, falling like stone to the chasm of his empty chest.
But as winters whispers its way into his home. His skin becomes colder with each passing note. But still, he pays no mind to the changing of his flesh. His breath now lingers in the air for a moment long enough to envision shapes. Shapes like one does in the afternoon sky upon the clouds.
His eyes grow heavy as he plays furiously in the moment. Rain begins to pour, it rushes into his home, slowly it forms itself to puddles. But still, he pays no mind to the drowning of his home. The madness of this moment consumes him as memories clash with anguish.
His whole body rages with a war of memories. Pity breeds a shield from hope, anger raises a blade to happiness, as faith is plunged to the illusion of nostalgia. And in lawlessness of thought, this war brings the succulent lies of suffering. But he finds them to be savory in bitterness
He feels his mind cling to fading thoughts, screaming for deceased moments. But these moment are no more, they are lost like any other. Nothing but photographs to the soul, left to burn in the presence of the past. To be no more than ash to feed the next.
And as his body rages war, nature finds dwelling in his home. His feet well beneath the rain. Droplets of nature come rising like sparks, as his fingers press madly upon the keys. His flesh, now almost the eyes of a crow.
But still he pays it no mind. His breath frozen to the air like falling snow. But still, he pays it no mind. His senses are charmed by the reminiscence of something lost, something broken. But he screams, screams in agony but still he plays. Tears become fluent in this moment, his eyes peel from the keys to the drawn window. The moon gazes between the somber clouds.
He becomes maddened, to all that he evokes within. More screams reverberate from his throat and echo to the empty halls of his home. More madness consumes him, his flesh now frozen, his fingers now rigid upon the keys.
Slowly, his screams become dull whimpers of misery. And in his suffering, nature now finds haven upon his pain. The rain now immerses his screams with no sympathy, leaving him silent. His flesh, now pale, his eyes stiff, his heart frozen, and his soul asphyxiated in death.