depression

Depression

It rakes it’s rusty razor love across the planes of the soul, tilling the fields for discord and confusion to grow rampant. Therein the shapeless malignance throttles our very cognizance, images thrusted which hold no tangibility, nor any value. Blind and confused like a newborn cringing from the cold of a blighted existence, each breath wishing it was not the first, but the last. Each day seeming better than the next.