[Chayden]

[listen to it. "The Swell Season" - Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova. It's marvelous.]

It was cold, and deathly silent. Soft snow drifted down from black clouds and lay on the swells of ocean and black sand. Everyone was gone. There was no one left... Except for him.
He sat, broken and battered, unable to move of his own volition. His legs twitched, his throat convulsed, he felt as if he would rip himself from existence...
The entirety of his being writhed, pulsating and shrinking, growing and contracting. It was nearly impossible to discern what, exactly, he was. Shrill screams came from his mouth in too high of a pitch; they went unheard. They would have been unheard, still, had there been anybody there to hear them.
He was the last creature in the world. He could tell. The knowledge was there, within him; he needed nobody to tell him the truth. He knew it, instinctively.
He was alone.
There had been a cataclysm, a schism between life and the dimension he existed in... He was the only one left.
It was painful. He was being burnt, now, scalded by the purity of the snow that fell innocently onto the beach. Soon, nothing would remain of his pitiful form, and the world would be empty.
For now, silence reigned.

[Chayden]

He was not angry. There was nothing to be angry about. The pain that he endured now - he deserved it. Even if he had not, his existence held no meaning.
Instead of anger, he felt peace. A white hot peace that seared his pixellated flesh. His members could not decide on their form. They jumped about, sending tendrils of feeling coursing through his veins. They were the last reminder he had of life, the final thing that held him here. Like a heartbeat, they constantly pumped toward their own end. When they were done, there would be no more movement here.
It would be perfect.
And that was the only comfort available to him as he inched closer and closer to the final curtain call.

[Chayden]

If there was anything that could possibly redeem him now, it was that he was unselfish. He could find nothing that he wanted, nothing that could make this passing easier. He was alone, and that was all that he could ask for.
At least there was no one there to witness his humility.
He did not want anyone to see him in this state, this instability. Before, he was secure. Now every fiber of his being was falling apart, pulling away from his soul and spidering down to become one with the endless blackness of the sand.
And he was complacent.
Now, should a higher power ever deign that this dimension was worthy of supporting life, these last, tiny fragments of him would be the basis of it. He would be mother to a new race, a new forever, a new time. None of the things he created would know enough to thank him, but that was what he deserved. He, too, would know the absence of recognition. He would get no thanks for his sacrifice.
And he was happy for it.

[Chayden]

At the end, he clung to life. He cried out, tried to use his fingers to grasp at what was left of his world - but he had no fingers left to grasp with. Everything was gone, and there was no way to get it back.
He would have to learn to accept it, or deal with the unrest of incompletion for eternity.
"What are you doing, what are you doing here..." he breathed, opening his white eyes. It took a herculean effort, but he did it. He was able to see what he was leaving behind. The sand, the sky, the motionless ocean... It was all black. The snow was white.
It was a negative world.
Devoid of life.
When he faded from it, devoid of emotion.
It would be swell.

[Chayden]

It was clear to him that he had reached the end of the rope. There were less than a handful of seconds left to him in this world without time.
Without lungs, he breathed his last.
Without lids, he rested his eyes.
His melted heart gave one more feeble beat before it was gone for good.
It must have been good, too. For the world. At long last, it could be free from worry. It could let itself float, and be free from itself.
There were no ties any longer. The snow melded with the waves, and the waves melded with the sand.The sky and the sand touched for the first and final time. There was only room for one touch before everything dissolved. It was a land of grey, now, of light, apathetic midtones. The nothingness welcomed all of him, and then was no more.
Not the end, and not the beginning.
Simply: the swell season.