GoodIntentions

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The day travels above us, circling the globe while laughing at the misery we toil in. A thousand years later everything's the same and worse; nascent evils summon themselves from beneath our feet and yank our roots from under us. Thus machinations of our daily lives drill onwards, soulless, while the feeble wisps of imagination left inside us cry out for a place of rest as the earth crumbles beneath our feet. Britannia sheds her tears of blood and Empires crash around us, willingly casting aside their sickles in a desperate attempt to satiate their tired gluttony. Havoc reigns and Chaos sits behind him, casting shadows across the Universe, leaving no place for solace on this earthly plane. And thus it came to be that our last and only asylum was that of our own minds, and one Cellar Door.

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