Totoka River I misplaced myself this time

The last thing he remembered, he was chasing a ghost; but he had not been lucid, not like he was now, grasping at the straw that stuffed him, clinging desperately to what kept him whole.
The world was a frozen wasteland.
It wasn't on fire anymore.
(Home? His brain? The world?)
In the far-away place out to sea, while he could not spy the darkness of the water well, he saw the black smudge-shape of the island and knew that it was home. That she waited there for him; but the name of his figment was outside himself, it was gone - a wisp of a thought.
She. She would make him better.
So the old man began a stooped walk to the edge of everything, following the river to where it emptied itself to the great beyond; the white noise of the waves grew until that was all he heard, and his head was briefly at peace for it.