The icy ground in 75° heat

His bones grow weaker, as the red sky is painted over with dark violets and navy Blues. His headaches thump harder, and the voices scream louder than ever before. His bare feet are stuck in the snow, and so he just runs and runs and runs, because his feet are so numb, that he can't feel the earth cracking between his toes as his jaw jitters a hymn dedicated to the cold air. 

He knows where he's going, but he doesn't know how to get there, so he stays where he's comfortable, in his burning soul running in circles, immune from the polluted air in the wooden city around him. He neglects a stranger's 

Hełłø

Because the trees he stands in look the same in every direction, and he won't go where he doesn't know, because his broken smile can be seen through a peephole in a door. 

He wraps a blanket around him, but still feels exposed, like a punishment for revealing his deepest fear. He wears a mask to shut out the ghosts for one second as he puts his hands to his face, he thinks he can make it. 

He hopes he can make it.