I read such woeful words penned by a fallen brother; his message cut me deeply. He prayed to all that’s holy that he might cry again.

How does a landed mariner ever tell a living soul about the exquisite rapture of the sultry siren’s song ? As it echoed through the mist,

Look out there, see them, boy ? They want yer juice. They’re dry, them circlin’ desert… All they want's yer juice, boy.

The storm is brewing. I smell it in the air. I am panicking. I fear this tempest might cost my life.

The old man, who thinks he’s dying, approached me with these words. I am sorry

Here he comes again, riding tall upon his hellish steed… Dead eyes red, charging straight towards me. No joy in that demonic laugh,

I was surrounded by many desperate, troubled people. There was much drinking, drugging, and violence. Women were being bought and sold,

Time wears away at me, like water on a stone, oh, so slowly, but inevitably, drop by drop,

There ain’t no precious gold comin’ outa that there mountain, if all I wanna do is sit and dream of what I’ll do when I get some.

There’s a voice deep inside getting stronger every day. I cannot deny the message these urgent words proclaim. Why bother?

These words I cry do not come easily; as if they echo from the cold stone depths of a long forgotten tomb.