It's like waiting for a miracle.

It's cold outside, so cold that oxygen is solid, grains of white sand floating in a vacuum of bullshit proportions.

He's encaged himself in a shell of his own creation waiting for the sun to melt it, to crack it open, to let his fluid being leak out into space forming a new meaningful becoming.

It's winter again; the end of an era and the birth of another.

He's not autistic but he just has nothing to add. He's speechless.

He's said enough.

He stings himself with a needle filled with oceans of anesthetic waves that'll help reduce the pain that he feels in his lungs. It's about time he feels dormant.

He wants to feel cold again.

He tells himself that once he transforms into an ice cube, nothing can shake him.

Ice can shatter however, but he's willing to take the risk.

Yeah well.

He'll just lay still inside until the flowers blossom again in his personal void.

It's like waiting for anything.