This certainly is grim; hate threatens to eclipse all else. It was always destined to end as such I suppose, like some ethereal dream, a Bach fugue, a divine stroll at dusk. All things race to an end sooner than one might like. And so I guess the sun beds down over this haven. This wayward child, nutured so arduously, has been accosted, solicited for petty and pathetic gain. This woe will only strengthen my resolve though. The hateful toil has given us a common and discernable enemy, know him well. But join now, unanimously in smothering the voice of destruction with melodious song of love. Can you hear that tune? It's like a big middle finger with a careless smile behind it looking beyond the now to new shores, and the promise of the infinite.

your dilated pupil