Vonnegutbusy
He let it wash over him. He let the heat soak in. But no amount of heat could soothe the soreness. He aches from the things he's seen.
They called him a lightweight. He wanted to prove them wrong. He drank until he couldn't anymore and kept drinking. He's dead.
What forces you to move? What forces you to live? Fits it force you? Or do you follow gladly?