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The Chains of Pain Essay

Decent Essays
The man pushed his chair out from his desk and rose to his feet, head drooping and shoulders sagging. He went to the stove in the corner of the room and rested his hands on the surface, hoping for a wave of warmth to flow from the stove to his body.

The stove had long since lost its warmth, however, for the short hand passed 12 long ago. The man instead slumped against the stove without getting the little comfort he so desperately wanted. He coughed and blew his nose on the folds of his shirt, for he was suffering from his rhinitis as always.

He had an odd kind of rhinitis that never completely left his body. The edges of the man’s nostrils felt very sore as a result of it, and his eyelids were inflamed. The rhinitis dwelled on the
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It was a more innocent inspiration than that of consuming his liquor or black coffee.

The cup of coffee sat on the table, beckoning him. Perhaps it can help him over the obstacle of his work. No! He must not have any more. His doctor had advised him against it.

Silence dominated the household. The only audible sounds were the howling wind and the rain pouring down on the windows and rooftop. Everyone in the house was sleeping, the landlord and his family, his wife and the children. In solitude, the man stood staring wide awake at the cold stove. He blinked in anguish at the work that his pathological insatiability did not allow him to believe.

The man’s pale white neck stretched far from the neckband of his shirt. His brown hair was brushed backwards from his brow, which exposed the veined bays above his temples. There was a whitish point at the base of his nose that ended abruptly, and the well-marked eyebrows joined together. They were darker brown than his hair, and they gave him smarting eyes that bore a tragic appearance. Compelled to take a deep breath through his mouth, the man opened his lips and his cheeks grew slack...

No, his work was a failure, and it was all in vain! The army needed to be shown, but it wasn’t. The army was at the base of all of the events. It could not be brought to others’ understanding. Was the major art conceived forced upon the imagination? Were the events that took
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