Blackened waters, like an undercurrent, flow beneath our consciousness. Like a riverbed they channel olden energies, sharpened feelings, and connective memories binding us to this world and one another.

There is a melancholy to witnessing these ethereal apparitions at times, and deeper still there are fears for the true nature of this tide and its eerie pull upon our wills.

Some would muse that at the core of our being is apathy and destruction. A hollowed sun which has become a spiral. A hole where all possibilities and aspirations come to die.

Others that even deeper still, driven beneath the bedrock of that humanity is monstrosity. Anguish and suffering waiting to be given form and a chance to arrive at long last...to ruin.

But there is something there still which betrays both these beliefs. A quieted, forlorn hum, like a symphony of strings suspended in darkness. Calling out for home...pleading for love...

It's in our nature. Even the lowliest, primordial aspects still yearn for love, and have their sympathies no matter how shrouded they have become.

It's in our nature...despite every wicked notion and punishing resignation...that there is still some good in us. Still some hope. Still some love..