That was how he recorded life - like snow flurries from his windowsill. Watching each one of them was like watching another one of his breaths be torn away by the wind. The moon - still - glowing like a nest of fireflies.

It was as if dread had settled upon him like a milky fog, burning through his nostrils, churning his insides. It became too much to bear. How could someone go on knowing that their heart beat in their chest like a clock always a few minutes too late?

It had been one thing when he had hope. Now the world took on a surreal, cinematic quality, as if he was looking through a veil back at the houses, the children, the smoking rooftops... A quiet had stifled the last honking of horns and soft shuffle of footsteps. He coughed again, turned away, and sighed.