I am a shell. A hollow man. What there is within this chest, and under this skin is for the blood and pitch of emptiness. Solitude is me. I find I am humble, yet lacking, and open yet unreceived. Gifted and misinterpreted. Where is the passion? Where are the flames? Coals and cinders around the ashes of former potential am I. Diminished. I need to accomplish, to endeavor, to strive, to continue; yet all the days are leading no where. What remains is dying. Drifting, pieces fading in the dark until all is lost and gone. Perhaps peace will come to those around me? I may find peace once all is right again.