The vagabond conjures his words, his ideals, as nightfall sweeps daylight from the heavens. Cold settles idly where shadows reign: beneath the desk upon which he toils, in the corners of his cozy room, and in his wanton heart, blackened and barely beating, like that of a carcass or a cadaver. That which he seeks from this world, no friend nor family may bestow upon him; only time and blood and tears. Yet like Helen Keller, I would rather walk with a friend in the dark than alone in the light. If you enjoy the fruits of my labor, please consider supporting me on Patreon.