The only lonely one of only. A thread in the string of time. Stretching forth like a withered hand cold in the wind. His skin is frail and withered. His touch is rough and course. Rigid like a strict maths teacher.
As old as he was, he was new as he is. Old in age but new in spirit. Newness of spirit made him young. Young at heart; yet having no effect on his body.
His voice was barely a whisper. You would miss what he said if a pin dropped as he spoke. His stride was slow and calculated. Every move he made was planned. He planned and then he moved his hand. His wrinkled hand. A hand that held stories within its crooked lines. Crooked lines of thought and deed. Deeds of youth and old age.
Ancient. Constantly in wait for the day his hands would stop moving. For now they shook. They shook uncontrollably and without his control. Trembling like he feared that which wasn’t there.
Weary and tired he awaited. He awaited and anticipated. Anticipating that which kept him waiting. Waiting and contemplating.
His time was near. The light at the end of the tunnel was now a glare. Blinding his once perfect sight. Pulling him closer towards the light of night. There was no longer a point, he gave up the fight.