I don't walk, I limp. You can see me mutter, but understand only pain. My mind is not peaceful. It is not an alpine meadow or a gentle morning mist. It is a debris field, a burnt out forest, a siren screaming in the distance and strewn garbage. Every dawn is heartbreaking. The weak morning light finds my face so pale and dead that mirrors hardly reflect the visage. There is no light behind my eyes. My spirit long ago fled. The skin is grey parchment with deeply written sorrow. If I had a god, it would be sadness.