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He was outside of life
Alone and floating in the void
But not in some beautiful or ethereal way
Not in some way that elevated him to the casts of godhood or seams of men that walked the earth with faces of iron and dresses of gold
Instead it was some wretched, lonely way
A creature cast into the void, not elevated by the hand of the great one
He was not beyond, but instead outside the music of creation
Intertwined with nothing, yet a spectator of the seams of silver and life and water and flesh that the peoples who were not retched were more than entitled to
But it was not for him. Not by meaning nor design. Soft dew of mist was but a cloying fog, and eloping bark of trees was but plastic. But even cloying fog and hard plastic felt as if he were not entitled to them
I stress once more. He belonged to nothing. In the loneliest of ways such that the feeling of loneliness rejected of him his spirit, and he was left only with his rotten flesh
And so he would indulge in the flesh
To fill his stomach. To flood his brain. To drip from his eyes. A sinking ship, forever to not reach the sand of the bottom of the sea but to find some in-contempt contentment in the smothering of dark water

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