It's cold and it is empty. I stand alone and look through the steam of my breath. There is no wind except the lone breeze that manages to float past you when you least expect it and chill you to the depths of your bones. The sky is eternally gray and I feel no sunlight has touched the ground I now stand on in centuries out of time. I am in a field. Behind me I have left no trail. There is no snow, nor will there ever be. Any precipitation comes in the form of freezing rain that slides down your neck into your collar and sends shivers through your spine. But there is no rain now. The tall dead grass rises above my waist and I can't see my feet. On the horizion I see a forest of dead twisted trees, and behind that dark mountains claw their way into the sky. There is no time, I am here now, and I will always be here, and I will never be here. I cannot build shelter because I will die before it is finished and it will stand uninhabited and be decayed beyond repair by the time I am born. I do not sleep because there is no night. I never wake because there is no morning. The dead undergrowth crackles like funeral pyre as I walk over it. I'm headed towards the trees. They move towards me slowly, but they come no closer. Within them they hide a lake, the water pure and clear, and so still and deep the surface is a black mirror reflecting the dead sky. There is no evidence any living thing is present, or ever has been. My world is a dead one. And so ever shall it be.

    The land between the trees and the mountains is barren. The ground grey and ashen. All is empty, there are no physical features save a narrow ravine that scars the earth between where I stand and the distant acuminous mountains. The gash is deep, full of blackness, and threatens to swallow me if I traverse too near. I kick up no clouds of ash as I walk, nor do I leave footprints, because I cannot disturb dust in places I've never been, nor walk across plains when I cannot move. The ravine stretches as far to my left and right as my eyes permit me to see. I know of no direction on the compass because there are none here. The ravine saddled by no bridge, and it's other side at a distance too far for a human bound, I find myself on it's other shore, the gaping hole now between me and the forest. There is nothing but the flat blasted land between me and the mountains, and towards them I continue.

    The stone of the mountains is jagged and black. A deep brown coloration courses through the rock like blood in it's veins. The sharp the rock is cool to the touch. The chilled stale breath of the earth increases as I move higher, and the winds threaten to pluck me off the face of the mountain and cast me onto the rocks below. Eventually I can climb no higher. Pulling myself onto an unstable ledge I find a small cave. I have to bow my head to enter, almost in a gesture of mock reverence for the darkness of the inlet. Once inside all is still. There is an overpowering smell of mold, the only living thing I've encountered. I wander inwards and eventually lose sight of the entrance far behind me. There is nothing, I make no sound, there is no echo. I stretch out my fingertips, and I find emptiness. I wander countless hours through vast blankness. I encounter nothing. My blind grasp is never greeted with the rough cool surface of the rock. My eyes never again see the cloud-shielded sunlight of my world. I wither and weaken, but I never die, for I was never alive. I will be here forever. I have found my Hell.