The dark hour goes out, washing away and leaving me behind. A husk, I cannot dream of a time when I can rest. Every night welcomes the tale of the awakened, whose mind toils away, a labor of pain and suffering that yields no fruit. Voices and music invade the plane of sanity and conscience, garbled and twisted like a vile concoction that I have to drink. There are no good thoughts in this realm, no hope and no reason to keep going. There is only a yearning to sleep.