On the long, wakeful nights when I contemplate the End of Life as I know it, a heavy and wearying
depression tries to take hold. Its embrace at first seems light, as though it barely brushes against me. It whispers that it isn't dangerous. The Depression sings sweetly of a darkness without end that I can create if rule under the Mothmen is too oppressive.
Depression is a liar. It tries to trick me into thinking it's a long-forgotten friend. It is no friend. No confidant. It is an enemy that lives in the dark places of the mind waiting for a moment of weakness so that it can drag its victim into the Pit of Despair.
