He stood up, his joints popping like dry kindling. He walked to the mirror and didn’t recognize the person looking back. The eyes were too wide, the skin too pale, a physical manifestation of a mind that had spent too long "vomiting strings" of anxiety onto everyone who tried to get close. He reached out and touched the cold glass.
The rain didn't fall; it hung in the air like a wet wool blanket, gray and suffocating. Inside the apartment, Elias sat on the edge of a mattress that felt more like a raft in a rising tide. The silence was the loudest thing in the room, vibrating with the ghost of a cello melody he couldn’t stop hearing. Silverchair - Emotion Sickness
"Sacrifice the tortures," he muttered, the lyrics of an old song acting as a mantra. He didn't want to be a masterpiece of misery anymore. He didn't want the sweeping violins or the dramatic crescendos. He just wanted the silence to be quiet for once. He stood up, his joints popping like dry kindling
He wasn’t sure. Time had become elastic. He’d spend four hours watching a single water droplet track down the windowpane, feeling a strange, hollow kinship with it. It was just gravity. It was just the way things went down. He reached out and touched the cold glass
