But those days were always numbered. His mind clouded by the words of the doctors. But he’s fought back before and he can do it again. “Everything changes”, he thinks to himself. “I’m getting too old for this shit”, he mumbles under his breath. Still, he searches deep for some inspiration. No gods to cry out too. No phone a friend to call.
Distant and alone, his searches his own soul. Hearing ghost of the past. Friends, teachers, the family that created his DNA; all calling, all comforting his troubled soul. “This to shall pass”, the ghost say. He looks down and sees a broken sanddollar. As his mind clouds over with the wistful mist of rest.