He draws his last first breath as he steps back onto the chair.
The rope lying in his hands, contemplating memories as it is.
He steps down from the chair and into the closet, holding a gun, nothing there to stop him.
He lays it down on the dresser, the clock strikes twelve then eleven.
The bottle of liquor lands in his palm, the feeling of nothing, he now finds his hands.
Glasses full of torture fill the bottle that was once half empty, but is now half full.