I don't even know which wrong twig I accidentally stepped onto. I just fall deep in the pit, and its mucus won't let me go. It's smelly down there. My anxiety grow exponentially. I looked up and only the moon smiled at me, unapologetically.

I've grown a little too close to the moon, the trickster of all things cosmic. I thought the moon was honest when he promised me half the day to rest when he's up there. I was not. When the sun's beaten and the moon beamed, that's when He tested my spirit.

Twenty-four hours were rough. What is this, a horror survival game I live in? I'd rather lose some limbs than my sanity, or on second thought, I'd rather die before they finished my character introduction. I don't remember I signed up for this. The moon scares me.

Say, with a heavy heart, could you be a little more gentle with me? I may be rough, and some parts of me cuts, but I wasn't a child born from lava stones. I feel at home around mud, and probably because that's where the waste of everything ends in this river.

To sum it up, I'm choked. I want to die early.