All of life is a mist, like an early morning fog that burns away at the first daylight of death. Yet, in its wake, left behind is the necessary moisture that hydrates the earth.

For the ones not in the knowledge, their perception will remain hindered by its obscurity, lamenting their existence fleeting and meaningless. They curse The Most High–a miasma of irreverence that softly and quietly steals the breath from their lungs as they sleep.

Ssssssh. Keep sleeping.