Gray clouds surrounded the little decayed house. Pointed shards of glass stuck out of the broken window and the wind blew his cold breath through the hole, whispering words to the young man who sat behind a table worn with age. His blue eyes stared into the emptiness no one else could see. A darkness so thick he was afraid of being unable to return, afraid of being stuck in the future forever.
The rags which covered up his body were wet, he was shaking like a leaf while burning up with fever. His excursion to the cliff might as well cost him his life.
His limbs were skinny, nearly transparent in their whiteness.
The shack on the cliff was dirty, the dirt was in fact the only thing that kept the walls together.
Pools of water formed around the table which stood in the centre of the only room.
A big pile of rotten hay in the corner mimicked in an obscure way a downy bed.
The hands of the young man slipped from his head. The blue eyes closed, the vision ended.
The fever raged in his body.