Guest Post By El Steppenwolf
A soft death, the rattle heard in every whispered breath. The flickering television light bleaches all colour. It plays about the tired face, flushed red skin and puffed red cheeks. The eyelids still and closed, and everything is so still. The once-so-jolly man retreating from the world that never offered anything but mediocrity in a mediocre world. He knows no regret but knows no joy.
Far from the raging plains of war. Cozy in the carpeted lounge, the TV loud but unwatched. The incessant advertising may as well be white noise. Cold tea sitting in a colder cup.