For thirteen years, we were out there in the desert. Ambling around in those desolate, barren wastelands. We didn't care, we knew what we knew, but didn't mind what we knew. In the winterlands, we walked alone for our past, freezing but moshing on. No woes, nothing to lament. We weren't happy but getting there. We knew the way. We had seen the end. We were on our way, mutual extinction on our mind, our collective spirits weary, yet we sprinted on. We moved on and onward, wanting to be united with those estranged from us, not knowing that we were becoming strangers to those already there with us. Isn't that strange? What is there, what's in there, is in there. It cannot be taken out, you can't take it out. Try all you want to, but you just can't kill the desert. You can only be there, take a little with you, and keep it there within you.