Writers can craft grandiose stories that may seem inconceivable, beyond wildest dreams. And mine are just my sufferance fragments of breaks and aches. Writers can create storms when I am in drought and barely living. Writers can create rainbow in a gloomy day. Writers can weave worlds that people will love to live in, but mine is a world where mess, chaos, pandemonium, coldness, agony and darkness seemed to be the best of friends. See? I am not a writer, never once was. Just a tarnished soul drifting into the cruel side of this world, documenting what he sees and gives warning to those who want to join him in his journey that once aboard the ship, it will be ineluctable.