After a painful sleepless night the old man drags his lifeless stiff frozen corpse out of a sunken bed of jagged icy thorns, as the classical music plays and without a breath in his chest, unable to yet see he drags himself across the frigid floor to prepare his coffee, his hands tremble as he pours in the water and counts the scoops of grind, fumbling he manages to plug in the percolator, as the coffee begins to perc he shuffles off to the toilet, where his bowels bellow out in the pain of hunger, in the mirror a man worn down by life itself with his hair and beard disheveled, to weak to care he stumbles back to his bed, struggling he pulls on his socks pants and boots, on weak legs he rises and manages to pour a cup of coffee, he carefully packs his pipe with scraps of tobacco and pulls on his coat, he opens the door and into the dark frozen morning he shuffles outside, the sky is dark as the sun struggles to rise, as the world begins to spin, not a single soul cares about the enduring hell the old man is forced to exist within;
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