By Aeryll Doman
Solitary nights can be dangerous. I should keep moving, but it's too late. Nameless, voracious, this thing that claims me. I'm lost, but the ache pushes me
onward.
We frequent these fetid sites too often, obilivious to the reek that we carry away on our boots. Wasting away, I feel it winding down. Purposeless is never
far from worthless.
I struggle to shake it off, but my struggles seem ineffectual. A thicker shell just keeps the darkness from the surface a little longer.