The hermit cowered in his sanctuary of prospect.
He squirmed through the dense fog as the darken dew landed so gently around his tender neck.
The essence of dirt left traces below is battered feet.
For his sanctuary left him distant of the world of chaos that peeked through the narrow entrance of his peace.
The hermit hunched over with his hands full of filth as he brought his hands to his frail chest.
His skin was dull and his eyes were grey to any light.
He felt the palpitation of his heart slowly beating as if it were a pendulum tuning his unsteady beats of his life.
He spoke in tongues and his sanctuary spoke back.
He was a victim of his circumstance, a fate he endured.
For he once was a magnetic gallant man filled with prospect of the life he once knew.
For his intention became clear. He was a hermit by choice and his sanctuary was the world of chaos he dreamed.
For his mind was strong but the the chaos quelled and condemned him within.
His vessel became his mind and his sanctuary engulfed him.
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