Sometimes we bleed from our eyes. Not the crimson blood, but the clear, salty droplets that glide down our hurt cheeks and dive off our trembling chins into the dark world around them. They collect on the surface of our streets, trampled by the footsteps of the smiles, happiness, and cheer. The scarves of darkness envelope their humans, covering the cowering souls with dread and despair. Though a peak of sun may shine through the shadowy smog, the scarves and tears with take over again, caging in the innocent souls and setting free the dead. The sun will drift away, and the cold will appear, freezing the hearts of some, yet thawing the others. The dark snow will fall from the quiet sky, landing on the fearful heads of the peasants, and melting into the roots of their thoughts. Soon they will realize what has occurred, but the sounds of the snow, drifting in the damp air like falling pixies, will drive them back onto the path they follow, the insanity.