Cursed, cold winds rustling my hair. A small rustle of motion in the backyard as I unlock my bike.

Behind me, a circling of leaves in the breeze showers the tree shadowed fence with dry, fragile disposed decoration.

The stirring of a spoon in a bubbling, blood red liquid. I mix a sampling of powder into the concoction as I sleepily yawn.

A pumpkin, placed by my hand, lies beside our twisted black mailbox, pummeled with the icy weather, and the occasional drunk driver.

I sit in a center of progress, the typing of hands on multitudes of keyboards surrounds my every motion, imbuing me with a feeling of purpose and hope.

Left alone, a darkness inside eating away, hollow yet so full of life that I can hardly bear it.

I am the darkness, yet it consumes all. Irony and the absence of it. What is life amidst true despair and suffering at the hands of truth?