I don't think this rain is ever going to end.
I don't think the sun is ever going to rise.
I've spent months in this windswept place. Years even; its hard to tell without the passing of the days. The clock on the wall reads 2:17, and it's been 2:17 for a long, long time.
I've stopped going outside, i'm weary of the wet and the cold. There's nothing for me out there anyways, not a star. Not a soul.
Not even mine.
Out in the darkness you could stumble for miles, never reaching anything; only to turn around and watch this street watching you back. I've grown to regard it as a creature, cruel and patient.
Some nights when you're trying as hard as you can to sleep, staring at the cracking wallpaper,
you swear that you hear the soft and ragged breaths of this small world between the patter of the rain. Try as you might, the sleep never comes.
Food turns to ash in my mouth, water turns to muck and the fire burns a dim and cold light. I've tried taking my life, believe me. I've hanged for hours on the rope.
I've wept for ages beneath the murky waters in the bath. I've gorged myself on the pills that never empty from the bathroom cabinet, but it seems that Death has forgotten this place as well.
I've come to deserve this brief pocket in the universe, that the seconds have forsaken and God himself has abandoned. You see, I killed a man all those years ago.
On one stark and stormy night my eyes did not look for him. My wheel did not turn for him. I did not stop for him.
And so time has stopped for me.
2:17 was the minute I pinched that man's wick,
And it's going to be 2:17 for a long, long time.