He was lying on the bed....staring at ceiling. The rotating fan continuously reciting him of the curse of boundations. He told his story, made himself an open book. They were too busy to read for and to care. He was sick of their business of busy-ness. He was waiting for his last chapter but even she didn't.
He now was saturated to the hell horizon and he closed the book. Now they were missing their specimen and so were curious. They asked him for a prequel but now he has no mood. They were trying brute force to open the book but his parity expressions defined their parallax.
His smile killed their motives and gifted him a breath. He left them in recursion just to be sure one day at their will they may make a reach out but after a finite moves and he moved by.