He is dying. Has been dying for a long time, many years in fact. But as of late, the thing that has been eating at him for so long has started to really win and now he lies in a stiff unfamiliar bed. He wishes he could go home. Not the home of song and hymn and bright, white light, but the home that doesn't smell of antiseptic and unemptied bed pans. The home where his wife sleeps every night, the home where his children can visit for as long as they please without a gruff over-stuffed nurse herding them out after an hour.
He lies alone most of the day. The television does not interest him. His room mates are sedated or sleeping. This means he spends most of the day with his thoughts, as one can only do so many crosswords in one day.
Outside his window the world rolls by. People still gloriously alive. He's as far from that as he's ever felt, and he tries to count the days, the hours, the heart beats, the breaths that he has left.
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