The Arms Of Morpheus

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."—Edgar Allan Poe

Darkness—perhaps it is the only thing I shall ever see. It pursues me with a haunting passion, emerging from its shadowy veil. Shall I ever break free from the manacles that bind me, in their morbific illustration of death? Is death merely a prelude to madness, or has it already invaded the realm of my embedded nightmares? Sleep itself has become my enemy, for each slumber brings me closer to the final breath.

Perhaps I am cursed by the paranoia of an omen, creeping swiftly towards me. Wretched are morphine and opium—they have eased the pain of my weakening body but left the demons in my mind untouched. Those demons wait patiently, lurking behind my eyelids, hoping I fall into a Lethean sleep from which I shall not awaken. Where is my elixir of nepenthe? Why must I repent for sins that were merely truths revealed?

I have come to believe I am the irreversible product of some hallucinatory episode, perhaps the beginning of dementia praecox. I can no longer fully distinguish the features of reality. The monsters I see—monsters no man should know—dwell in the abyss of my mind. They fade and return like the fickle tides of night and day. They hide within the recesses of my brain, only to surface when my fears become unbearable.

I sense them. I fight them. But their torment is vivid and ceaseless. They are invincible, stalking me with a merciless madness. My screams are swallowed by their guttural roars. And so, I endure this hellish siege with waning wit. I hear the barking of my two long-buried dogs, scratching at my door with infernal wrath.

Time—day and night—has become an abstraction. The morphine dulled my senses, but only opium invited the horror that now haunts my every thought. Its grip once loosened, yet my mind still yearns for it. How I resist its seduction, I do not know. It is a devil greater than those depicted in sacred texts—for this devil is born within.

I once lived a normal life, full of aspirations. That life was lost when the phantasmagoria began. The isolation I once cherished has become a prison of waking nightmares. I need not reveal more, except to confess: I am an addict. I sit alone, entombed by four sturdy walls, staring into the abyss of life's uncertainty and death’s certainty.

The year is 1917. The world evolves industriously, the old opulence of kings replaced by new regimes of terror. Wars rage, diseases spread from birth, and the poor rot in slums while the wealthy grow arrogant in their splendor. I am not blind to the picturesque world beyond, but my mind cowers before the grotesque visions it imagines lie just beyond reach.

Once, I was a man of keen intellect and experience. But now, I am overcome by an oneiric torment, known by many names yet leading to the same fate. I have become a stranger to myself, yearning to flee the Morphean shadow that clings to me. These moments, I now understand, are the peripeteia—the tragic reversals of fate.

I have long been fascinated by death, yet its inevitability now consumes me. Sleep, once a balm, has turned into an adversary. Since this began, I have chronicled every shadow, every scream, every descent. This is no fantasy—it is my affliction.

It has been a year since I lost my two black dogs. They were my only solace after a bitter divorce. They replaced the wife who left me. Nothing prepared me for their loss or her absence. Financial ruin soon followed, brought on by poor investments and deceitful men. I placed my trust in the unworthy.

The Great War still ravages Europe. I have lost cousins and friends to its cruelty. Death knows no allegiance. It is the silent collector of souls.

I am a man living on borrowed time. Desperation marks my every word. I never knew sadness until I felt it. Never knew pain until I bore it. Never knew death until I saw it take those I loved.

Though middle-aged, I have not forgotten the faces of tragedy. To deny them would be to deny myself. If I could change anything, it would be the errors I made in blind folly.

Now, I dwell somewhere between life and death, a suspended place where time has no measure. Soon, I may drift into the subconsciousness of death itself. Is there such a place—true nothingness—or are there black holes where understanding itself vanishes?

Can a man be trapped within the black hole of his own darkness? That question haunts me still. It is a riddle no logic can solve. How do you defeat a force without form?

Death—my nothingness—is all that remains. Nightmares defy reason. They exist only to horrify. There are those who reject such nihilism with dogmatic certainty, but from the beginning, I have believed the soporific weakness within me to be the sign of a creeping malison I call death.

Sleep heralds my end. Drugs dulled the anxiety for a while, but calm never came—it was a fleeting illusion. My body withers under illness. My skin is ghostly pale. I have become novaturient, strange even to myself.

My thoughts are fragmented, riddled with doubt and unrest. No man should shoulder such torment alone. There are phenomena beyond singular comprehension. There are things too esoteric to grasp, even for the most tormented mind.

The days I had spent contemplating, and the nights shivering in the coldness of my room and isolation, bled into one another. I would write in a noctuary with a throbbing passion that unsettled me, often feeling the tingling sensation of languor, and the numbness creeping into my legs and hands.

All of this paled in comparison to the imminent thoughts of my demise—of absumption. Suicide once seemed rational, but it was not the answer to my irresistible affliction, which continued unrestrained. I resisted with all my might and mental faculties, defying the looming faces of death. I could descry the cawing ravens outside, waiting patiently for a morsel of my flesh. The wind howled with a raging birr, calling my name in eerie murmurs. I could hear the gargantuan rats gnawing at the wood and the roaches scavenging my leftover food.

I heard everything. I was acutely conscious that they were waiting for my death. Paranoia denied me sleep for days—but how long could this pattern endure? I ate only what my stomach permitted, drank enough fluids, yet my body waned into the final stage before death.

I lost count of the days I ached, the hours beclouded in the darkness of my soul. Electricity was scarce; the only light came from a dim lamp or the pallid shade of daylight. The awakening of my mind had become my ultimate challenge. I could feel the heavy beating of my heart, in rhythm with the ticking clock. Each minute marked the suspense of my agonous dilemma.

I was still young, but the illness had aged me, worn down my flesh and my will. Hallucinations deceived me with increasing fury. I began to see shadowy, terrestrial beings—imaginary, perhaps, yet utterly real to me. Voices once dormant now crept into my head constantly. Were they fragments of my conscience? Or the laughter of the tormentor who reveled in my misery?

I lost the grip of volition, concealed now within the soberness of velleity. To beg for pity was all I could manage. Nothing remained in my life to suggest felicity. I coped the best I could with the demons that taunted me, tormenting my restless spirit. Were they reapers of my soul, awaiting my eternal sleep?

The dilation of my pupils had increased tenfold, and it became difficult to focus. I had no familiar friends to whom I could relate the terrible nature of my torment, nor could anyone comprehend the unbearable demons that pursued me. Thus was the predicament of my condemnation.

My muscles stiffened with intolerable pain. I felt segnitude within a vacuum of vapidity. The attenuation of my physical strength afflicted me with profound malaise. A heightened hypochondriac hysteria and acrasia conjured the immane force of demons, as I fell into the pit of no return. No prescription could mitigate the miserable pain or the merciless convolution that displayed the apparent state of my fragility.

I sought stability in the realm of the mind, but worried about the disintegration of coherent thought and ratiocination. My appeareance dimmed; the pellucidity of reality now indefatigable and unbearable.

The thought that I was helpless to change the course of my life signaled the adamantine oppression and abject despair of apathetic gloom. I was aware of my impending fate and its ominous presage. I could no longer pretend ignorance. The quantum of minutes dissolved into aprosexia. I could not eschew the morbific fear that clutched me. I was granted no respite, no just tarriance. The cruelty of my ordeal revealed the horrendous truth of what awaited me in death.

An hourglass beside me reminded me of time’s relentless march toward expiration. I could not predict the hour of my death, but I knew it was inconfutable. Death is invariable, as is the sovenance of torment. It is the unknown—transmundane and obscure—that feeds our dread. Memories of my past were my only solace, even amid the abhorrent collapse of my sanity.

Never before had I confronted such a leviathan as death. Life was once something I cherished daily. It had become a nightmare, transforming me into a paranoid wretch—a man I would come to despise until the end.

There was never a token of hope to believe in the end, though I fought against the darkness of illness with all my might. Who dares claim they have escaped the manacles of insanity? I, merely a mortal man, had entered the concealed realm where none should ever tread.

Reading was my escape, my fleeting distraction, but even that became difficult. The pain in my fingers and the lack of sleep hindered my writing. Still, I chronicled my affliction. Why had I reached this point? What would my life have been if I had conquered my demons sooner?

I slept only in fragments—brief, desperate lapses rather than rest. Desperation would not allow sleep like that of normal people in normal lives. I had become a nocturnal zombie among the detestable ones. Whatever name it bears, I attest to its horrific cruelty.

Few things in life are worse than death. For some, to die peacefully in sleep is desirable. For me, it would only embody an inescapable horror. I was destined to die a poor man’s death—alone, and forgotten.

My muscles knew the pain, and the medication I took only fed my addiction. My greatest regret was failing to escape the terror once I recognized its arrival. It came to me like an infectious mist, devouring me whole.

Verily, there would be no escape. To imagine that fate cast over me a shadow so heavy, it awakened hallucinations and consternation. How could I not be driven to hysteria, knowing it was a matter of time before I succumbed to eternal sleep?

There were moments I tried to convince myself it was only a dream—but to no avail. Panic spread like wildfire, as my mind blurred reality and surreality. The trembling in my hands reached down to my toes. A convulsion loomed. My body longed for rest, yet my mind obstinately resisted. It would not let me sleep. I bathed in cold water or poured it over my head to remain awake.

My vision had grown blurry and deceptive. I entered a terrible realm—my own subconscious—where each breath felt like a stolen gasp. My lungs were infected, and my pulse waned steadily. Was I reaching the stage of expiration, the pallor mortis that follows? The marked graves beyond the house haunted me.

I recall the day this affliction first took hold—the hour when the realization pierced the core of my intuition. Who invited it? That I do not know. Only that it came to stay, lingering unrelentingly in my mind.

There existed a room in the back of the house, long abandoned, yet always faintly ticking. The floor was uneven, buckled by the weight of neglect. On every wall, nailed haphazardly or hung with some faded intent, clocks ticked—not in unison, but in chaos. Some marked the seconds like metronomes of decay, others lagged behind, stuck in a limbo of lost time, and a few spun forward manically as though rushing toward an unknowable end. Dust lay thick across the floorboards, but the air felt heavy with tension, like time itself had stagnated and was fermenting in that room.

The clocks bore no familiarity. None had been purchased or placed with recollection. It was as if they had been born there, emerging from the wooden walls like episodes of chronology, each marking a moment I had long since forgotten or refused to confront. Some chimed sporadically, coughing out twisted lullabies or distorted bells that rang as if submerged underwater.

A strange compulsion drove me to sit in the center of the room, beneath the leaky ceiling and the shadows of the endless, ticking mouths. I remained there for what might have been hours—or days—listening to the dissonant orchestra of time mocking me. The clocks bore witness to everything I had not accomplished, to the memories I dared not revisit. They measured not the passing of seconds but the decay of meaning. It became clear that this room was the mausoleum of moments never lived, aspirations never achieved, and promises broken in silence.

As I sat, the weight of those countless ticks pressed against my skull, like invisible hands turning the gears inside my head. The walls pulsated with the burden of repetition. I tried to stand, but the floor seemed to grip my feet, anchoring me with invisible vines of introspection. Time, I thought, is not a river—it is a sinkhole. And in that moment, I knew I had always been falling.

One morning—or what resembled morning in the grey haze of my existence—the sky opened with a rain so black it looked like spilled ink dripping from the heavens. It did not pitter gently against the windows but struck the panes with a violent hiss, like acid burning its way through glass. I watched it from behind the curtain, my breath fogging the pane as the dark streaks ran down the outside like melted obsidian.

There was no thunder, no wind—only the sound of that tar-like rain falling without mercy. The trees in the distance drooped as if poisoned, their limbs sagging under the invisible weight of corruption. Puddles formed on the uneven earth, shining like pools of oil, and whatever birds had once nested nearby had long since fled or perished.

I ventured outside once, during the first storm of this kind, months or maybe years ago. The rain had not been cold, but warm, and it clung to the skin with an almost sentient intention. It stained everything it touched—soil, stone, skin. Nothing washed it off. Its residue remained like the aftertaste of grief. Since then, I had learned to remain indoors, though the urge to step beneath it sometimes clawed at my chest in a way I could not explain.

As I watched the black rain fall, I felt a familiarity in its descent, as though it mirrored the slow seepage of decay within me. Its unrelenting rhythm resonated with my thoughts—chaotic, impure, irreversible. It was not water—it was the shedding of some malignant memory from the sky, a mourning that came not from the soul but from the clouds themselves. It rained not to cleanse, but to remember.

The storm continued without pause for hours. Or perhaps I had simply lost the concept of time again. The black streaks on the glass thickened, veiling the outside world like a curtain of forgetting. The sky was no longer visible. Only that monotonous fall—black, thick, inevitable.

Nothing haunts the mind more than the enveloping shadow of obscurity. The demons within us are our fiercest foes, manifestations of our darkest reflections. No one ever truly knows when they come, or when they will go.

What I can say is that they persisted in my mind. There was once a time when my intellect was unmatched, but I lost its clarity in the most atrocious manner imaginable. How small the world becomes when one is forsaken to a dreary corner of oblivion. That place is no illusion—it is real, existential, and congruent with the palpable dread of death. I do not merely imagine it—I feel it.

I was born into the industrious womb of a world that would eventually condemn me to solitude. Time, that unusual tyrant, was always present in my daily struggle. Melancholy and depression suffocated me until I became indifferent to their weight. The voices—those dauntless whispers of suicide—were the signs of my unraveling.

My body continued to suffer and endure the harshness of my plight. But until when? That question loomed, unanswered. I ran out of paper to write on and began scribbling on walls with chalk. Tedium never plagued me—my mind was always occupied with the most dreadful thoughts imaginable.

Thoughts most people dare not admit. They say the human mind is the body’s most fascinating part. I agree. And I believe that to transcend the threshold of consciousness is not impossible.

I am no expert in anything—just a mortal who has seen enough of life to know both its seductions and its sorrows. How disturbing the image of a man burdened by the agony of his soul. Must he bear the shame of his failures alone? I am a prisoner of my own fears, unable to live among others. Cast into the chasm of my own chastisement.

Abandoned to a fate without deliverance. What was my path? Nothing more than a series of errant episodes, of unfulfilled expectations never realized. If my birth was the precursor to my doom, then in death, I would fulfill what life never allowed. In the eyes of the sufferer, the distinction between sadness and happiness becomes clear. What they reveal is more than what others presume.

I have witnessed the peculiar effects of loneliness and the weight it bears. I dread that madness shall echo in my mind like a spectral orchestra playing my lament, while I wallow in the threnody of despair. Sleep is but a hollow hope. It accompanies me toward death, yet my body craves it most.

There was another room I seldom entered, and when I did, it was only during nights of heightened insomnia when the silence of the house grew too vast to endure. This room, smaller and sealed by a door that creaked as though it objected to being opened, was a private library—but no ordinary one. The shelves were filled not with books but with blank volumes, countless tomes of varying shapes and bindings, each unlabeled and untouched. They lined the walls from floor to ceiling, collected like relics from a life never lived.

At first, I believed them to be empty notebooks I had forgotten to write in, pages never used. But when I opened one, something strange happened. The pages revealed faint impressions—scenes, thoughts, phrases—not written in ink but inscribed as memories too vague to fully manifest. They shimmered like fogged glass, refusing to come into focus, but undeniably mine.

One book contained a forest I had never walked through, yet could smell the moss of. Another showed me a towering lighthouse at the edge of a cliff, surrounded by wind and ghosts. There were entire sections of the library devoted to dreams I might have dreamt but never recalled—chapters unfolding with the sensation of having nearly remembered them in some distant, half-awake state.

The air in the room felt dense with forgotten potential. The very walls seemed to lean in, urging me to remember, to fill the silence with meaning. But I could not write—not in this room. Whatever I tried to inscribe would vanish by the next turn of the page. These books rejected invention; they only accepted truth, and truth had become elusive.

Wandering the room, I ran my hand along the spines of books I had never read, yet somehow recognized. They pulsed with the rhythm of dormant thought, and I could feel each volume humming softly, like hearts that had stopped beating but had never truly died. Every now and then, I would pause before one that felt particularly heavy with resonance, open it, and stare at the void within—yet the void would stare back with equal intensity.

This was not a library of knowledge or history. It was a graveyard of intentions. A sanctuary of the uncreated. A cathedral of the silence between thoughts.

It was unbearable, yet addictive.

If I am to die, know that I was an innocent pawn in a game I never stood a chance to win. The rules of this macabre game were never mine to choose—they were enforced by my tempestuous fate.

Across the centuries, death has marked every society with an irresistible pull. I was no exception. The friends who once adored me now shunned me, casting me into the depths of addiction, from which I could never fully escape.

And when I did, it was only briefly—moments of false liberation. I can say now, without shame, that I will not see another day of freedom, nor a moment of joy, until my morose burden is wiped away. I have no need for facts—they only serve to highlight my instability.

I ponder the face of death, and how it will greet me when I cross into its domain. Will the demons still pursue me, even there? I wish I could hear, just once more, the dulcet chirping of a sparrow near the window—instead of the clamor in my head. To see the sea again, its waves welcoming me.

Or the face of the woman who once professed love to me, with her soft, mellifluous words. But that, too, has become an implausible dream. No man can return to his past, nor foresee his future. We only presume the present. In the vague canvas that life paints, nothing resembles the portrait of my despair.

They say life is a blessing. For me, it has been a curse—one so cruel, no man should be forced to endure it. I was not among the fortunate who escaped the perils of mental illness.

I found the staircase by accident, though I suspect I had always known it was there, hidden behind the layers of dust and time that had begun to accumulate throughout the house. The staircase spiraled upwards into an abyss I could not fathom, its banister worn smooth by the touch of those who must have climbed it long before I arrived. The wood creaked underfoot, groaning with each step, as though the house itself was warning me of the danger in ascent.

The walls were lined with mirrors—distorted, crackling reflections that shimmered with the passage of each footfall. I glanced at my own face, half-obscured in the glass. My eyes were hollow, darker than the night sky. The mirror showed me a version of myself I could not recognize, someone who seemed trapped between the present and the past, neither fully one nor the other. I reached out to touch the glass, but the reflection moved first, as though aware of my intent. It was as if the reflection existed in a separate timeline, or perhaps in a parallel dimension of forgotten versions of me.

The higher I climbed, the further my sense of time seemed to warp. The steps grew more uneven, more jagged. The air felt thinner, more oppressive, as though the space between breaths was tightening around my chest. It was as if each step I took was another moment of undoing, a further spiral into an unknown self.

Reaching the top, I stood at the entrance to a room I had never seen before, though it looked oddly familiar, as though it had always existed in the periphery of my thoughts. The door stood ajar, as if inviting me to step into something that had been waiting for me.

I did not enter. I could not. The room, whatever it was, felt like a truth I was not prepared to confront, like a thought I had pushed away for so long it had become dangerous.

Instead, I turned away and descended, my feet dragging slowly, each step a deeper fall into the abyss of my own mind.

The cold had seeped deeper into my body. And the shivers—those dreadful, uncontrollable shivers—gripped me with terror. The never-ending cycle of madness repeated endlessly, unraveling through the seams of time.

Why does the mind insist on making us believe what is not real? The hallucinations felt real, yet they were but the twisted fruit of paranoia. And the darkness—oh, the darkness—was the endless continuation of nightmares. Of the three graves I mentioned, two held the remains of my dogs.

The third was dug for me.

The garden was once a place of vibrant color, a patchwork of flowers and tall grasses that had danced in the wind. Now, it was a cemetery for memories, the flora wilting in the persistent gloom that clouded the air. Even the soil beneath my feet seemed dead, as though the earth itself had forgotten how to nourish.

I wandered the paths aimlessly, as I had so many times before, each turn taking me further into the labyrinth of forgotten places. Here, there were no birds, no insects, no signs of life. There were only shadows, deep and stretching, hanging between the skeletal trees like old regrets. The air tasted bitter, as though every breath I took was laden with the past, but those were memories that seemed to have forsaken me.

The flowers, once vibrant with life, had been reduced to darkened husks. Some still clung to their petals, but they were dry and brittle, like old letters left unread. Others had already disintegrated into the soil, returning to the earth in quiet surrender.

I knelt by one of the dead flowers, fingers brushing its brittle stem. It had once been full of color, full of light—but now it was as much a part of the decay as the others. I wondered if I, too, had once been like that flower—alive, full of potential, ready to bloom. But now, like everything else, I was withering, returning to the ground where I had come from.

A wind began to stir, though it was not a gentle breeze—it was cold, sharp, a harbinger of something more ominous. The shadows lengthened and moved with a will of their own, curling like smoke around the trees and the flowers, wrapping everything in a shroud of endless twilight.

I stood and walked deeper into the garden, each step heavy with the weight of all that had been lost. The shadows seemed to follow me, growing longer with every passing moment. The air felt thick, pressing against me like the weight of an unanswered question. I was no longer sure whether I was walking through the garden or whether the garden was walking through me, shifting and changing with each thought that passed through my mind.

In the center of the garden, where once there had been a fountain, there was only a darkened pool of stagnant water. I stared into the depths, searching for something, anything, to give me a sense of clarity. But all I saw was my reflection—warped, fragmented, just like the world around me.

After the deaths of my dogs, I prepared my resting place, knowing I would join them. I never believed in reincarnation, but if my soul ever returns to this world, let it be as a joyful spirit, wandering freely.

Death is the ultimate cessation. My bones and ashes will become dust. I shall not prolong my senseless suffering with hollow words and endless notes, but I shall leave the world with these last words of mine of reflection.

Journal entry:

I feel the weight of time pressing down on me, suffocating me from all sides. It is not a physical sensation, nor a sudden realization—no, it is a slow, insidious unfolding. Like the soft erosion of stone beneath the endless flow of water, I can sense that something deep within me is eroding as well, something that I cannot reclaim, no matter how desperately I try.

I can feel death coming for me, not as some distant specter, but as a presence that has always been here, waiting for the right moment to make itself known. I am nearing the end, and yet I cannot escape the strange stillness that accompanies it. The ticking of the clock, which once seemed so constant, now feels irrelevant. The hours pass by unnoticed, slipping away in the way that memories do—so subtle, so inevitable.

It is in the quiet of this moment that I realize how much I have lost, and how little I have left. The world, which once seemed so full of possibility, now seems like a fading echo. There was a time when I could reach out and touch it, mold it, shape it with the force of my will. But now, those days are gone. Everything I once believed in, everything I once held dear, has crumbled away, as if the very fabric of my reality was woven from thread that has unraveled beyond repair.

I think back to the days when I felt alive, truly alive—when the world seemed full of wonder, full of meaning. I can still remember the light in my eyes, the fire in my chest. But that fire has long since dimmed, and now I find myself drifting in a haze, unsure of where I am or where I am going. The path ahead is obscured by the fog of time, and every step I take feels more like a retreat into the darkness that has always been there, waiting for me.

I used to believe that there was something more, something beyond this life that we lead. I thought that through enough introspection, through enough searching, I would uncover some great truth, some grand revelation that would make sense of it all. But now, I realize that there is no great truth—at least, not one that can be understood with the mind. All that remains is the quiet acceptance of the inevitable, the slow fading away of all things, including myself.

What I had before, what I once was, can no longer be. I can see it clearly now: all the dreams, all the hopes, the people I loved—they are all gone, faded into the distance like the faintest outlines in a fog. The laughter, the warmth, the moments of joy—gone. They were fleeting, fragile things, and I held them in my hands as if they were permanent, as if they could withstand the ravages of time. But they couldn’t, and now they are lost to me, as they are lost to everyone who has ever lived.

I used to think that my life had meaning, that the work I did, the people I influenced, the paths I crossed—all of it mattered. But now, as I sit here, staring at the fading light of day, I realize that none of it matters in the end. Everything is temporary. Nothing lasts. Not even me.

It is strange, this process of dying. It is not violent or sudden. It is not a jarring force that tears through you. No, it is a gradual retreat, a fading away into the silence of oblivion. I can feel myself slipping, little by little, as though I am losing pieces of myself to the void. The person I once was, the person who believed in something, who held onto something—she is no longer here. Perhaps she was never truly here at all.

And yet, despite all of this, there is still a part of me that clings to hope. It is small now, barely a whisper, but it is there. A fragile, irrational hope that somehow, someway, there is something more beyond this. That the darkness I am walking into is not the end, but the beginning of something new. But I know that this hope is only a fragment, a remnant of something that no longer fits within the reality I have come to understand.

I am close to the end now. And though I have learned much, I realize that there is still so much I do not know. There is no answer, no final understanding, no great epiphany waiting for me. There is only the fading light and the quiet emptiness that comes with it.

Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps that is all any of us can ask for. The quiet acceptance of what is.

The time has come to say goodbye to the fragile shell that bore witness to my final days. Perhaps laughter is the one thing death cannot steal. Even now, as I fade into the sable grip of death, I laugh in its face. I laugh until insanity consumes what remains of my mind.

It is done—avaunt the demons in my head. Sleep at last. Eternal sleep. The fever of living has ended. I am free, drifting forever into the arms of Morpheus.

Author Notes: In the arms of Morpheus
means to sleep into oblivion.

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