The walk of the sufferer is slow and staggered. Every step taken with foreboding and trepidation. They are worn and emaciated in appearance, for they are haggard. The longing of their souls is like a never ending prayer sent up from darkest of the dark and desolate places. To count their stories is to see a sea of despondent faces. I have dreamed many dreams of tranquility, and of that oh so peaceful stream. I have contended with the darkness, and now know it intimately; it is not a friend of mine, for it seeks to destroy me. I have heard the loud cawing of the crow; I have seen the terrors of the night and the eyes that glow; it has fed on my misery and sorrow. It has fattened its belly with the essence of the lost souls that are now hollow. It has rendered men soulless vessels of bone, blood, and muscle. It has taken. It has devoured. The souls of men seek reprieve and comfort, but their portion has been akin to an eternal purgatory without the promise of heaven. The weight and heaviness of sorrow and sadness, crushes the spirit and turns it to fine dust. The darkness comes quickly and inhales the remnants with vile euphoria. Like vultures to putrid and rotten flesh, there is nothing left to denote what was, or what could have been, just nothingness and the foul smelling void intermingled with horror.