Chuck Perrin

They warn you not to go down into that dark valley. But you just can’t seem to help yourself.
The air there smells fetid, dank and rotten with decay. Before long it begins to settle in your chest.
The path is narrow and confining. There is no place to turn, no easy exit, and no escape from the tendrils that grow around your legs and waist, anchoring your body to the muck and slime of self-pity.
As you descend, you lose sight of the sky. It gradually dissipates, melting into an eerie blackness; all light blotted out.
You can hear a faint irregular pounding, like boxcars grinding against each other down along some distant track.
Your tongue is parched dry, but beads of moisture form near the corners of your eyes.
It is then you realize that you are captive somewhere you were never meant to be – where everything that pretends to matter, really doesn’t.
A place called loneliness . . .