The cloud falls. Madness like a blanket envelops those around it with its black love and confusing fate. It masks itself as a lit walkway when all else seems so bleak.

We distance ourselves from the darkness walking down that path until we realize there is nothing left which we recognize and in those brief glimpses of our memories it becomes clear that our sanity has failed us and we try desperately to retrace our footsteps but there are none.

It is in these moments that we realize history is a path which endeavors to own us, wraps our minds into a net of patterns and lines which repeat like links in the very chains that bind us, yet somehow we still struggle to shake free half expecting that we can change this fate.

Our souls come and go, and yet we still walk the same lines as the spirits before us. We try to change that which has come to pass by remembering it, and yet it returns to us still like a horrible plague.

We cannot set the clock back; we cannot stop its incessant ticking forward from permeating our hearts and our nightmares.

For some reason man believes that all they see, feel and touch are all there truly is. It is what they cannot see that is real. It is in what they cannot have faith in, that which still has faith in them even now which can save them.

Somehow there is a god that loves them┘despite their anger, their fear and their inability to love each other. Somewhere he cries out to them, throws his arms out and desperately pleads for them to open their hearts, to see that which they cannot see, that which they cannot feel, touch, taste or hear. Yet still they cannot believe.

They watch the sun set and rise, the fire of the sky, the stars that light their evenings with a shimmering grace that they could only hope to aspire to be someday and yet they still deny, they still hate, they still fear.

How can man fear that which is so beautiful, how can he warp that which can love him despite his flaws. There are two gods: the god that man made and the god that made man. Which will you choose?