He lay there, on that island, without the breeze, without the sun, as the machines around him kept up a steady heartbeat, the breaths—machine-made and hissing—were not sea-salt air.
The gatherings in his life—the riches, the fame, the women—provided no help nor solace. They meant little to the hum of the machines, now his only possessions, being run by someone unseen, perhaps Oz, who saved Dorothy.
Alas, there was no clicking of heels and heading home. There being nothing of note unless the rising numbers and pulsating lines held one’s attention. This island was not his to keep; it did not offer unlimited sunrises and sunsets; this island resided apart from it all.
Eventually, the lines squandered their height, pulled straight by the lack of information, and the numbers cascaded to zero, unsupported, as an eerie tone emanated throughout the room and the halls outside.
Life gives and takes. There is glory in the giving, but the final take is just that—final.