|Copyright - Douglas M. MacIlroy|
He stood on the basalt sand and knew despair. The mists were closer today…more impenetrable than he'd ever known.
At first, there had been possibility but, with each passing day, more was consumed…seemingly lost to him forever. His will was no longer strong enough to forestall the nothingness.
He wept salt-bitter for all that had been lost to him. Vistas wide of seas, of mountains, of ships and more were now ever less and less coherent.
Somewhere far distant from the all-consuming despair, the coma deepened and the machines, dispassionate and unrelenting, registered the ever-diminishing impulses of his dying brain.