Dark, winding passages like doomed dungeons decay, like the forest that fails the the wrath of the storm with eerie noises and howling winds that scream such high uncertainties – These moutains are haunted, tormented by the darkness that yield to none.
Sick, water streams , laiden with poison and disease and cank’d motion flow as to whine to its aweful chorus through these valleys.
And as the dark shadows creep ever so silently stalking the hills with malacontent – they skies are grey and dark and sick and dead and they are ravaged with echos of this place.
This is my mind – the twisted labarinth that the minotour’s laughs bellow throughout.
My decay is this place, my mind is falling apart – fallen apart.
Seek refuge, take care – its early evening – more wicked thing are to come.