Can't go on. Weary, weary to the bone, so cold, so tired. No thought, no will, nothing but a shell. You are nothing. The relentless voice which once whispered now hammers in his head. Nothing, a speck, a maggot crawling over the surface of a dead land. Give up your pathetic shred of a life and die now. Why prolong the pain, the senseless effort, only to perish later? When you could sleep now... sleep forever?
Stop. No more. So tired.
Yet in the night's darkest depths he dreams... of the Shire in springtime.
I can manage it. I must.