Sometimes blight, is not so right. To watch in these moments, the truth sink in. To the abyss, it has gone. Lost forever, to be found again. In another time, it would seem it is. The things that we lost, were not ours. In a world where death begotten, the world forgotten. It is not my place to speak ill, of the deeds of the past. My deeds too will become the deeds of the past. For those who come, will see what we do. They too will experience, what we create. Not for them, but for ourselves. The deep crevices of hungry and pain, filled up without a gain. The hollowness around us, in reality is us.