Timothy

He sits in an old arm chair, sagged and worn out much like its owner. His small eyes glance from side to side, their lids flickering ever so slightly as they take in the afternoon sunlight struggling through the curtains of his dark room. Memories hang in frames along the mantlepiece. They are what his eyes flicker to most often. His hair has now gone, faded to patches of white across his wrinkled skull. Looking at this man, you can see how gravity was the eventual destroyer of him. It has pulled a once proud figure down, bending the spine, causing the skin to melt. Every so often he grunts or makes a vague gesture. You nod, because you don't know what else to do. A mind gone, lost, left the once bright eyes, now dull. Beside his hand, on a table, are pen and paper. There are words. But the paper now collects dust. His clothes, like the body, sag, and wrap the weary corpse like a cocoon in layers of knitwear and once white shirts. "Maybe I should be dead," he mutters. "What time is it? I would like to die at nine." Tomorrow, you know he'll forget.

The End

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