There was a dog whining, the sound up here, relatively free from any trace refraction or reflection, no hint of the beauty of vagueness, was most peculiar, as it evidently sat quite naturally within its morphology. He could tell most people thought the dog was scared, or wanted to investigate the scents of other animals in the vicinity, but it was obvious, the dog was bored, and was probably thinking the same thing he was, why do people actually come up here? As he had walked up the hill he could hear, in his right ear, his heart beating as if there was something inside him desperate, but everytime an attempt at escape was made it simultaneously, in an all too frequent moment of lucidity, realised its self wasn't, and fell back, inert. However, such familiarity, induced by the reaction of misaligned realisation, lasting a mere millisecond, supposedly, once again inducing a desire of flight.
As he continued to walk, keeping his mouth shut for the sake of vanity, such undeveloped thoughts were caught and discarded, occasionally they entertained him, and he had been known to entertain them. A pervading melancholy dominated their persistence, but this was not his own sadness, but now he was still, immersed in the view of the town and the voices up there with him. It escaped, and his face was cold, perhaps nauseous. If left alone would these thoughts be found again, were they particular to this space away from home, if found again would they be recognisable? Did he actually care that much.
He thought. There are so many things I have read, seen, heard, and at this moment all I can focus on is a man who looks as if he is about to die. The man got up and moved away.