Day didn't dissolve into night for him.
Day was severed by night.
He was stout, fearsome, by every measure tough.
But dark?
He could feel dark drip down the back of his throat.
Dark didn’t lay a blanket, it growled with endless malice.
Some feared heights, from which they could fall and die.
They could avoid those heights.
He could not avoid half the time on a clock that mocked his weakness.
He didn’t know its origin.
He bent under its weight.
The fear didn’t diminish with age.
It grew.
And he began to fear sharp objects that might one day, somehow, render him blind.
A mostly blind man who is afraid of losing what little sight he has.
Bam. Hard hit power punch.