Years ago, I used to play D & D at a friends house far from my own, and would have to walk home alone at the end of the night. It was a desolate trek. Flat fields, low ditches, no-one and nothing but the lone cars and their midnight drivers. Half-pissed or half-awake, shuffling along in the backwoods of dream, I remember feeling possessed of some distinct - and distinctly weighty - understanding of what it all came down to in the end. I remember feeling cold and alone, sometimes worried for my life. Bored out of my tiny mind waiting for the knife to cut through the dark. In the morning I’d check my pockets for bits of miracle fluff, but there was never anything but minging tissue. That stuff builds up over time of course. That's where you get things like this.