The ground was cold, dark, and bleak - much like the face of the man who now lent against the old, crumbling cliff-side, on that windy, overcast Friday afternoon. Most would have found the wind biting, chilling to the bone, as the sun only barely poked out from the constant gloom of the clouds above. Not him. Never him. It was never cold enough for him.
The man breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scents of salt and sand. He shuffled awkwardly in place - even as lonely and cold as it was, the place still felt too warm, too alive: after all, there were fish and shrimp in the sea, probably crabs under the sand, and the seaweed continued to grow. Seagulls flew in the air, making their nests in the many coves and holes in the side of the cliff, and filling the air with a dreadful racket. His head felt like it was slowly being filled with jackhammers, thanks to their constant squawking. It was painful and noisy enough when the voice was in his head, the least he cou