The floor is broad, like a shoulder—flat, cold, searing. Holding up, with no pocket to swell and swallow—no black in comfort; hollow reality.

Destruction, down there, a flip of a cheek, the shadow of a tear; it pools on the floor, and the floor swallows it. Down, down, down, down, down...fallen. A vacant soul in the eyes, swimming in untold sorrow. The smothered rage, the drop down a pit; like a rock, like an apple. Burning, cold.

So this is it. This lack of soul, within the heaving of the soul—

Defeat.