-There was once a time when I roamed freely, into the depths of soulful moments, spared from any form of sorrow. I was truly happy, bound to a life worth living. I had been a passionate soul in my last days, before I had been submitted forcefully, to eternal rest. Before such an ordeal had ever come to pass, I would read every single book that I could get my hands on. Not a single one had been trivialized or mistreated. By me, Drew Clairemonte. A mere mortal, a sensible being. Of course, stories can strike an endless array of controversy. As a matter of fact, such a revelation can be as disappointingly mad, as it is fulfilling. Quite surprising, actually.

Each book has a wonderfully long history. As well as a mind, a heart... A soul behind its workmanship. Its content serves a purpose. Might allow the author to inform, perhaps? To educate our growing communities? These are quite valid, reasonably real. The craft of creative writing is a difficult challenge to take on, but not entirely impossible. On the contrary, it is quite liberating, quite fun. I longed for a soulful adventure, a disastrous plight. But I was filled with the keen pleasures of the flesh, the mere curiosity of youth. A detrimental fright.

And so, I wrote and wrote. At a rapid pace, nonstop. Countless letters that had filled my boxes and drawers, from bottom to top. Addressed to no one in particular. "No one, but myself." Letters professing my eternal admiration and passion for the moonlit sky, until the dawn. Up until the rooster crowed and the morrow eventually came.

Until it had come upon us all. The stars will always be worth the wait, worth the time. They are loyal companions, ready to lead. Ready to guide.

To you, it might sound quite ironic. A bit satirical, to be specific. Needless to say, I would like to further eliminate so-called "everlasting peace", from the equation. Throughout extraordinary experiences, wild adventures and fascinating encounters, I have still struggled to maintain my inner peace. I have lived a joyously full life, and yet there is still something missing. A spitting image, reflecting in the chrome.

Faded, completely faded to a shattered nothingness. A pale shade of gray covers my skin, like a satin frame, a dress of silk. The lace, dragging amongst the wet pavement that ever flowed upon the night, upon the morrow.

And so, after having written, and written all night, nonstop, I headed out the door, for some fresh air to fill my lungs. A natural recharge from head to toe, from bottom to top. But I must say that going out was not an easy task, nor a wonderful recreational activity or job. I could not be amongst a crowd, unlike any other, for it sparked a certain fear in me, a sense of everlasting anguish, a sense of sweeping sorrow. For the townspeople dared to judge me, when I had judged them not.

I found myself surrounded by demons, beings of the hellfire, bottomless pit. Screeching sounds and defamatory voices, followed my every motion, as I tried to accommodate myself, in the midst of my very own commotions. Voices, of the abominable, the chillingly playful souls. Dragging me, as if I were a corpse, enclosed, kept locked in a mortuary crypt.

I felt as if I had been dead, adjusting to the very strange and unusual customs, of the living. Their strange little passions, their soulful little quirks. But I never felt entirely human. Not at all, for a lack of a better word. Moreover, I had felt like something else, of a much smaller, intrinsic value. A mere simpleton, of no money, nor worth. I was just a cradle of rubbish and filth, sinking into a pile of ash, of mere nothingness, forever condemned to act upon my good judgment, my good will.

But I was determined in my youth. To make a soulful plight, a bittersweet exchange. I had longed for collective praise and recognition, but I was quite tired of lying by omission, filling my dark eyes with warm tears, streaming down my pale skin, as each and every single one of them glistened. I had no further understanding of the spoken word, in itself. And so, I began to question my actions, my thoughts at my very own disposition.

I had searched for an answer, for months on end. And so, those months turned into years. Until someone had gotten a hold of the very letters that I had once written, all those years ago...

I had been searching beyond my very own understanding of spirituality, within myself. But I sang hymns of great joy when I wasn't as happy or as joyous. I had been oddly gay, and noticeably jolly in my youth. But the opportunity for a better life, a better future... That, was something else, entirely.

And so, I had met a companion, and our passions were kept mutual. But I never really had the chance, to truly profess my deepest admiration. Towards someone... Towards him.

I tried to conceal my sentiments, but the signs were irrefutably undeniable. Sensibility was (according to the vast majority of my personal interactions with family, and acquaintances), my supposed "weakness". And yet, he saw this as my most utter virtue... A magnificent strength.

It's hard to forget his many acts of kindness towards me, Drew Clairmonte, a penniless writer with no family to go to, nor a place to call my own. He was a splendidly handsome young man, in many respects. With dark piercing eyes, and a softly faux complexion.

But I must state truthfully, that he was much more timid, than myself. But my feelings were not based on the carnal pleasures of the flesh, or solely upon physical attraction. The fire that burned within my soul, was greater than any other. It was just as unmanageable, as it was uncontainable.

"Victor Salverg", was his name. The only son of a hard-working seamstress and a factory worker, both of which were Italian immigrants, who had fled from the lethal hands of a terrible war.

The first of four children, who had sadly passed away; months prior to our first encounter. He and his sister Julietta were the only ones, left. Before fleeing the country, his family had no prior knowledge of the English language. But the rumors started to spread, thickening the air. About America, as a land of promise.

The Salverg family worked briefly, for a company of kind, American merchants. There, they learned how to speak the language, fluently, as well as the essential principles of grammar, spelling and additionally, the structure of each and every single one of the Aristotelian Units, due to their love for theatre. But Victor improved quickly, surpassing his predecessors in knowledge, skill and craftsmanship.

Although Victor had been the owner of a thriving business, before the war, he decided to pursue his love for the performing arts. Spectacular writers and playwrights had not had the recognition that they truly deserved. And so, he became a respectable actor, in his own right. After a few years, all of them eventually ended up living together in a small cottage near the outskirts of Lily Crest, in Oregon. They, unfortunately, bid a tearful farewell, to their former American employers, who had given them a second chance to start over. To chase their dreams, acting upon their most precious thoughts and purest desires. But they were starving refugees, now. With no choice, but to stay, in spite of their small source of income, (or lack thereof).

Their personal circumstances were strained, and cruel. Although they were generally well-received amongst the townsfolk, there were many others who were not as willing as the rest, to convey a sense of welcoming hospitality. Victor's father and mother grew terribly ill, with age. But that did not stop them, from having hope. Their last two children had already perished in the midst of war, but the two remaining grew terribly ill, as well. Julietta died, a few hours later, due to heart complications. Fortunate enough for them, Victor managed to recuperate fully, and quite rapidly.

And so, the "Magnificent Six", as they liked to call themselves, were now the "Desperate Three." Their family unit, shattered and incomplete. Hopeless. Making constant financial efforts, throughout their personal affairs and endeavors. For some inexplicable prospect, it had truly felt as if the very forces of the Universe itself had turned against their wishes, to establish a full and prosperous life, in America, as they had pledged, after a small family council that had taken place at the Jackman's (Their former employers' home)

Predictively sooner than expected, Victor Salverg, was left alone, in the cottage. He ran towards the nearest shed in the forest. Desperately looking for a shovel, to conduct a proper burial. But he could not find one, immediately. Thereby having to resort to much more difficult methods, under his very own grasp. He dug his family's individual graves, using his bare hands. With a heavy heart and tearful eyes, he delivered a saddening cry. It was not a cry for help, but much rather of anguish and discomfort. As if he started to feel a growing sense of hatred and resentment, towards the world.

Clenching his fists in the air, pointing at the night's sky. Crawling and screeching and even cursing. Causing him physical pain. As he felt the sudden urge to throw a small rock into a lake, he fell harshly on his knees. He started to cry, uncontrollably. He then picked up the stone, once again. Studying it in such a careful manner, as a single tear fell on its surface. He then ran far from that small cottage, before letting go of the stone that he had found in the woods, collapsing to a certain degree. A lack of rest had successfully started to take a negative toll on his health.

Falling upon the muddy pavement. And so, the clouds had already started to merge at such a rapid pace. His tears were controlled momentarily. But, nothing would change that oh-so-familiar prospect of emptiness.

I happened to be reading a small book, upon the surface of a tree stump, that I was eager to utilize to my advantage.