His muscles tensed. He tried calming his thoughts. Breathing was now an issue. He felt his chest constrict and his hands began to shake. If only the ceiling were thicker, he thought. The massively loud thump from the apartment above had disrupted his writing.
The candle flickered a menacing glance his way; a moment before it had encouraged him. His apartment was small and dark. He felt his mind was trapped. It hurt to open his eyes. To see his nothing. It tortured him to be alive. Outside the door was additional pain. It was better to sit here with his four walls and write.
He ran his hand down the length of his face and beard. Over and over he continued doing this without realizing. The candle become a nuisance. He blew it out. This was now between himself and the walls. His beard was long and he rocked slightly as he continued to run his hands down the length of his whiskers. A few hairs drifted to his feet, no longer attached to the man, or his rocking. The wood floor was unkempt. Dishes had piled up and had taken over much of the counter. Books had been left open and forgotten throughout the apartment.
Stopping to smell the oil on his fingers, his eyes became wide. He thought to himself, that which is nothing is still here, and continued to run his fingers down his face and beard.