It would seem that vengeance was the only thing he had to live for and as it became a futile expression of hate, his life became just the same.  This lead to his yearning for peace and as he could not find it in his life, he sought it out in the ground, next to his only love.

Sweat soaks the shirt resting between Max’s back and the sheet he sleeps upon.  It pools around his midsection and begins to cool and Max startles awake as his cold, damp, salty sheet drives a shiver like a spike into his spine.  He shoots up from underneath his covers and gasps for air clutching his face in his hands. When he finally calms his shaking he mumbles, “Shit,” under his breath and through his fingers as if someone is listening.  Rolling out of bed he stumbles in the dark towards his bathroom to splash some water on his face.  His sweat soaked plain white t-shirt is gripping his chest like paper mache and his boxers, damp and heavy, seem to sink with each of his steps.  Like his shorts the air in Max’s apartment was hot and thick with moisture. A heat wave had set in on the city and taken hold in his building making it feel as if each room was on the brink of a summer thunderstorm. Yet, oddly enough, the heat was not the cause of Max startling awake tonight, rather it was due to a recurring problem of his. 
Max is of average height and build and his skin is, for lack of a better word, loose because until recently it encompassed a much larger man.  This is of course also the cause of his slipping underwear but Max has chosen to ignore his weight loss as it was not planned or caused by any gumption of his own. Max’s face, though currently pale and distraught, is defined by soft features and deep dark eyes, topped with ragged brown hair. As some color returns to his visage and some warmth crawls back into his limbs, Max notices that his bathroom is sweating as if having its own nightmare. The sight of the dripping tile walls draws his attention back towards his dream and Max whines to himself, “Falling, its always falling.”  
For the past month this particular dream has been the headlining act in Max’s subconscious. Every night he drifts into sleep and is met with a peaceful cliff top scene overlooking a mighty river winding through the valley below.  Grass on the cliff has lost its color; blades made grey from fear of the perilous heights. But braver the grass was than the trees for not even the mighty oak had dared to wander near the cliff.   Among the courageous blades, clad always in a silver robe, Max sees himself dangerously near the cliff’s edge gazing up towards the sun. At first he would shout to himself warning of the coming cliff but his words repeatedly proved futile. 