It is then when you choose either to stay or leave. They don't care, they have never cared, they need no one, and no one needs them. So it is completely up to you, to surrender to the nausciating virus running trough your veins, or to grab all your might and leave, leave forever. And that is not a decision for some, they just roll in their back and get out repting like jointless cockroaches; but some find a home in the revolting place, so they stay. And it is then, just then when you become part of the dark, you inhale and exhale it, you are one with it, or at least you feel so. And it is then when you become sad, but not to yourself, that would be too simple. You become sad to everyone else, even if you are not yet one of them, or plan to be. You will never be the same.

Because once you enter, and decide to stay you keep watching, and walking and inhaling. And you can't stop either, you can't do anything else, until it dies. You moral dies. Not metaphorically, not figuratively, it is not a game. Liying in the floor bleeding with gangrena sort of dead, that place is not for the easily startled. And then it becomes a dead end, you can't go forth, you can't go back, you stay there. Among the dark, sad and sick. Untill yourself is indistinguishible from them. And it is only then that I stoped caring, I need no one, and no one will ever need me again.

By I'm the penguin