He pored over the various amount of black and white printed volumes, the structure of the mess that surrounded him spilling over on to the gray floor around the table. Crumpled up sheets of paper with messy handwriting, hardly legible to anyone but himself. Taking notes had been as if his breath was caught constantly every time he tried to exhale or inhale, and the relief of oxygen flooding into his senses had been stunted before it could reach a calm, relaxing and meditative moment. His monocles hung on the side of his face, secured in spot by a dangling chain and clip to the earpiece. The idea was scattered, like prismatic colors, waiting to be formed into a solid theory, to be made permanent by the very dull black ink that would pour from the tip of his quill. A man possessed, and trapped in desperation, constantly racing against time, and for what?
That lone end question lingered in the back of his mind, haunted him in his dreams like many other things. But despite the ample bookshelves in the room, spilling forth with all the acquired knowledge that should have embodied nirvana to a scholar like him-- There was not a window. The walls were structured with brick found in dungeon cells, some parts of it stained with blood from the last unfortunate soul who had smashed his head against it repeatedly in a suicide. It had been left there as a reminder to all future prisoners. In here, he was subject to many magical effects, a world brimming on the edge of extinction, constantly surrounded by the oppressing force of those mad and in power, delirious with their desire to rob any person with any sense of dignity to nothing but their bare shell of a past. Though it sickened him, the oppression was not without some semblance of kindness. He was allowed outside into the community village when nightfall hit. Even though it was hardly anything compared to all the dreams, forcefully injected into his mind, all the work, that almost rendered him unable to do anything but perform three times the average job of what he should have been capable of. A warrior. A scientist, and Entertainer with no breaks in between and lengthy hours -- he was given a few hours every night out of his birdcage to himself. Throughout this, the ticking hand of a clock dial would forever wrench forth an ugly emotion inside him, of anxiety, anger and despair and sickness.
