Wisps of smoke like tendrils curling around a finger of light desperately clawing its way into the dim room.  Must and musk and disuse choking the stale air. Time, endless, days dragging on sickeningly slow, yet running out, each moment important, begging for meaning, then lost. Grasping firmly onto thoughts and memories of sense of self long gone, unused, decaying and withering.
Struggling, the tiny beam of light flickers, then dims. Darkness and dark thoughts becoming one again.