As I sit on the cold wet flagstones, crushing myself into the corner to try to stave of the storm, a slight glimmer of my former intelligence runs through my mind. Through gritted teeth a hoarse chuckle escapes my parched lips. I think to my self how strange it is that the walls we build to keep others out so quickly hem us in 'till at the end the unbreakable walls are all we have left to comfort us in our endless torment. Every tear drop falling in this storm is blood, the very stuff permeating the stone and mortar of this hell to the point where you can't see where one begins and the other ends.

This dark black blood issues forth from such a poisoned spring that none can ever contemplate the depth of hatred that fuels it. This blood runs in rivers deep and swift, sweeping up the last footholds of truth and beauty and dragging them weeping to the river Styx were all things end there short earthly tenure. The keep contains not but a thrown made of razor blades, used to build this hell. One can build a throne of these blades, but you can never sit upon it to rule the domain at its feet.

A bottomless pit of despair and loathing steals the light from the very sky, dragging it down into the fetid swamps that strangle the very air of this damned kingdom. The moon but a mockery of what nature intended it to be. The stars like wraiths wonder aimlessly in there fathomless abyss, lamenting the scene below and mourning there own existence in such a place.

A once glowing home is now naught but a jumble of empty rooms and wind swept halls. Waves of false hope spread the charred remains of dreams that warmed this home through the halls, a grotesque parody of the forms that once delighted. It is strange that this construct of the mind is the one last shred of reality that we can hold to. For as long as we have this, we at least have ourselves.