If

If i could remember one thing about this past.
It would be the grey, rainy, cold and damp corners of the room.
The way the air is still. Covered in nothing but mold, dust and rust of your thoughts. Your dreams, your nothingness, your inability to conceive joy. Your death, resurrection and all that's in between and beyond - nothing.
A senseless cycle of being. A form and structure. Easily replaceable with any other living being.
Your morbid soul taken into a faceless shadow of hollow creatures calling from below.

excerpt from the Chronicles of The Departed.