Jacobson was glad that the sun reached him even in dim flush. The stone pressed hard against his shoulder wasting the little energy remaining in his now deteriorating body. He had given up on his futile cries for help hours prior, and was now on survival mode. Jacobson could, in his dreary delusions, feel his every bone. As if what remained of his body was tangled – muscles wilted; hanging heavy in a sack of decaying skin. The crevice enrapturing him seemed, diversely enough, blameless, for it kept him from stumbling into a darker, deeper precipice – the cave's massive throat: a barren, sunless certainty. Jacobson's breathing, stressed in rapid, rhythmic toil, relaxed. His pupils fixed and limbs, numb. He had landed in this snare alone and not, as asserted, with a group of experienced climbers. Jacobson felt very detached for the imminent crept closer with every passing minute, second. He fought, mentally at least, to keep alive, to keep death's stranglehold from eventually swallowing him whole. He had life still; he had to keep fighting for life itself.
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