Timothy thought about that old saying, "The darkest hour is just before the dawn." He had been trapped in his sensory deprivation unit in his Upper West Side apartment for three days now. Something had gone wrong with the latch.
Worse: there was no light. He couldn't see his own hands in front of his face.
"The darkest hour is just before the dawn," he thought, over and over again.
After five days Timothy imagined he heard a rooster crowing. Then he died.