The night is falling from the sky. I can see it coming through the blinds, cascading down like molten fires erupted from some fiery interior world. It will bury us all, this never-ending night. There is nothing more to do than to face it head on with the certitude of the condemned heading for the guillotine. Am I the only one that sees this nightmare come to life? I walk the streets alone. I cannot find another man or woman there, no one to look me squarely in the eye. All I see are pale apparitions clouding the streets with their dead languages. It amazes me the words I hear used. There are floods of them spewing from rotten mouths. Their movements carry the grace of pale-bearers. They move in and out the shops, going about their daily business, rising every morning at the appointed time–a legion of zombies clogging the highways. But it is all a farce! They build their mausoleums higher and higher, trying to scrape a bit of heaven from the sky, but the dead piled on top of one another can only reach so high.

Is there anyone out there to hear these words? Am I the last man alive in this land that stinks of death? Where have the others gone to? What route of escape did they find? Have they found a place where the earth still breaths, where the waters still run pure and golden?

I watch the stars rise and fall from this bare cavern of a flat. The days and nights bleed into one another. Still, the idea obsesses me–a way out! There must be an exit from this graveyard of glass and steel. The winds rustles the dried up leaves. The sky looks like an endless void. How did I enter into this prison? Is this the price for losing Eden? I cannot forget the promise of Paradise, even as I stumble through the bile of these dead streets. There must be a way back! Even though we have ventured this far into midnight, we cannot have completely lost the memory of the path from where we came! To regain the memory of our ancestors, to know their honest glory once more! Dash the chains against the rocks so that we might return to the spring of life, that seed hidden deep within the barren soil of our being.