Orlando Ramos, 16 Feb '13
He never thought he would lose it all, becoming nothing more than a whisper upon the wind. It was funny actually, in a beautifully cruel way, how quickly it all happened, from start to finish. A brief blaze that paled the stars, a light that appeared to herald all creation, but one that died quicker than he thought possible. He failed. Against all potential hope, he had failed once again. Darkness was now all that greets him, a nothingness so devoid of existence he could not even feel the cold, nor even conceive what such a thing was. All that was left to do was wait for a new chance to arise, for the terrible agony lay in the reality that this was his thirty-fifth attempt at ending the plague that surrounded him. At ending his loneliness. Patience was a hard thing to hold on to when madness threatened to devour it. So far he'd held it at bay, but for how much longer he would have the will to do so was indiscernible. He needed to destroy it all. He needed to create.