He began to write. He wrote for what felt like days, filling pages with thoughts he never had the time to process in the frantic, buzzing world of the 21st century. He slept when he was tired, waking up to the exact same pale blue pre-dawn light streaming through his window. The pigeon was still there, a perfect gray statue in the sky.
But by the "fourth day" of his isolation, the silence began to curdle. Island.Time.rar
It took him an hour of physical exertion just to move the mouse cursor two inches across the screen. His muscles burned. Sweat poured down his face. He began to write