There is a little Adam in all of us. At times I wonder to myself why I was ever born with a half decent, fully functional brain; one whose mind seemed to throw everything out of its beloved treasure box, everything but this. My memory serves as nothing more than a haunted refuge I cannot leave myself isolated with any longer. Doing so would surely transfer the suffering of the soul on to the body, which would in turn reap nothing but carnage and self-destruction. Without learning, without understanding, .

The End To All Things. Others would have probably ran like hell. The drive that pushes me to do things, to write these words, to say things better left unsaid. Continuously stabbed, time and time again because of this feeling.