The old man sleeps in his chair, nightmares ensue, of gloom and despair. Blood-curdling screams and visions of death, so real that he nearly chokes on his breath. The old man stirs in his chair, today his grand-daughter showed him her teddy bear. But those memories melt away, they never last, obliterated by the fearful buzzing of bullets ripping past. The old man is awake in his chair, past trauma renders him unable to care. Insomnia keeps striking the poor afficted soul, his once firm mind is barren, a gaping hole. The old man sits calmly in his chair, the mask on his face is that of a cold, empty stare. Painkillers, his only remedy to pain, poisoning his body as they circulate his veins. The old man tries to stand from his chair, something is wrong, it just isn't fair. A futile attempt, he cries and begs, . . . . . the old man has no arms and legs.