As they begin to march toward the light, their figures become blurred
through a salty streaming liquid.
These are the times of solitude, and, in the eyes of the pessimistic,
desolation.
Pain and loneliness are now one fluid mixture, a hunger sated only by
the blood of the innocent and the weak.
To the boy who lives inside his humble prison, shackled by the red-hot
irons of morality: LOOK.

And yet another fades away, never to return home again.
In these, the days of agony, none can help but to mourn.
Yet, in course, sorrow only loosens the moorings, allowing the
black-sailed ships to drift out alone.
Each floats to its own rhythm, sliding gracefully upon its own current.
To the girl who bleeds of self inflicted love: LISTEN.

To everyone else who seeks to inquire of the absence of solitude,
firstly; and all who would attempt to discover the source of presence in
its most rudimentary form, surely; and each entity which refuses to look
to the sky, hoping for the existence of something greater, but instead
tries to perceive such grandeur in the mediocre air about it:

REMEMBER.

Penned by my hand on the 17th of Mayan, in the year 448 AF.