The next morning he opened his eyes to darkness. The clock said 5:42. She was fast asleep as an island next to him, and would remain there for at least four more hours. He got up, put some running clothes on, and took off down the road along his three and half mile morning trail. He had managed to stay in excellent health, despite an injury to his knee he received in Afghanistan. It bothered him the first mile, but after that it became almost unnoticeable.
No man is an island. The life of an island has no purpose. Dares nothing. Helps nothing. Feels nothing. Affects nothing.