• He lives in a crypt. A tiny room filled with cigarette smoke and dust from the broken AC, which, anymore, only blows in the sun-dried air from the outside world which he has never seen. The windows are all boarded up with rotting 2x4s and rusty nails. There are water stains and cobwebs on the walls, though it is hard to see them by only the tiny bits of dim light that manage to seep in from between the wooden planks on the windows and from the spaces between the crooked door and its ragged frame.

    He is sick and nobody cares.

    He claws at the walls, at the rotted wood shielding the outside from his view. He is desperate to see the stars that he read about so passionately in his beloved books. He doesn’t remember anything. All he knows is that he is terrified of the things that he has forgotten. He is terrified of what they may have been and of what may have caused him to forget them.

    He is dying and nobody cares.

    The wood gives way and the moon smiles at him as he peers out the broken window at the wondrous world outside of his crypt. He sees the stars.

    He is gone and nobody cares.