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I get tired of speaking to negative people and yet I know they have endured, injured and in some cases broken. Left as leaflets as remnants in a world that was long forgotten. The world, like times are always changing. Corridors turn into back alleys where whispers become shouts and groans of pain.
These are people who were gripped and then pulled back from insanity and somehow maintained a sense of flawed self, ready to be returned to the shelf and all the wile not knowing what awaits in the abyss of the unknown.
Death could only be the beginning and they are closer to it than I am and for some reason will always be closer still.
