The moon sets, the world is dark. Throughout this turgid land of shadows, faint glimpses of light flash here and there, but they are swamp gas, will-o'-the-wisps, not to be headed, for each time one shows itself, a glimmer of hope returns with it, only to be sucked in to the foul, fetid waters of uselessness, drowned with the rotting corpse therein. The likelihood of another dawn wanes and struggling forward in the ghastly wastes is nigh impossible and just as pointless. To sit beneath a hangman's tree and fall asleep is now all which I can hope to do.