When you are an old and shriveled husk of yourself, the passion forever extinguished in your eyes and dreams lost and abandoned in the dredge of your memory, you will finally know his name.

Who knows where he came from? Some say he is the brother of Death himself, but unlike his hooded brethren he does not conceal his face, a visage of pure hatred behind listless grey eyes and a stone chiseled beard, nor does he wield a scythe, choosing instead to rip away our dreams with his bare hands.

But before you know him there you are, a young sapling eager to express yourself, to let your voice be heard. As you grow older you can almost feel your dreams being crushed to dust under the monotony of day to day life. The blank pages and empty canvases become prisons of white walls as ideas are swept away as fleeting as wind borne ash. Soon you find yourself just another cog in a system as cauterization envelops your soul and all the vitality slowly drains from your body.

And now the waiting is over. He has come to tear it all away, to rid you of childish musings and worthless fantasies. It is he who set fire to the Library of Alexandria, it is he who raped and slaughtered the Muses, and once he has come for you there is no turning back.

Only those who are lost are free from his bitter grasp. Those whose mouths twitch and utter nothing but ramblings, whose eyes stare into nothingness and minds corrupted beyond repair. Some of them roam the streets in ragged clothes. Others are locked away inside of padded rooms, but they are all prisoners in their own minds, slaves to the wreckage of their own dreams that will never come true.

So just know this: it is never too late to follow your dreams, lest you endure the wrath of the one they call the Dream Crusher.