In the binding heart of darkness there is still hope for some light. The people who live their lives like this everyday hope to win the fight. They all truly deeply hope this is not all in vain. So they all do what they can do that is bear the pain. Faith seems a distant memory in this land of dread. It is here where people are dying for a bread. Throats are slit, and blood is spilt. Red, shinning like a thread of silver in the hands of a smith by the furnace fire. I have seen my blood flow, thick, crimson, dull. The roads so straight and direct. Yet they intertwine and cross over and wind in an unending manner. Life should be unending. But then again, it shouldn't. For a new journey to begin, the old one must end.