This was my attempt at our creative writing exercise in class today:
When the rosy dawn should have appeared above the heath, only a vague and disquieting light slowly crept around the tops of jagged distant peaks. The yellow face had not shown his face in days, Herculean black clouds blotting out his light, dripping noxious mists that clouded our path. It was the fifth day since we had left the river, or perhaps it was the sixth. The days melded with the monotony of the Cimmerian shade. As I rose from where I had lain I was aware of my body, especially my withered tongue and gnawing paunch, which had waned from its former fullness. Profound weariness sat behind my eyes as I shifted dispassionately straining for sight of some distant, but imagined hope.