The night sky twinkles with the hopes of children everywhere. Each star, a manifestation of someone's wish. Someone out there who wishes for a pony or a father or a home. But they are only wishes, only stars. Broken promises -- a light at the end of the tunnel that offers false hope, for when we reach it, we find only an empty room, with no doors, no windows, on dusty lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, a reminder of all we do not have. So many stars. So many dimly-lit rooms. So many reminders of so many troubles. So we wait. We wait for the sun to rise, for the light at the end of the tunnel to finally be what we are searching for. But too often, even the sun cannot offer the hope we search for; it only turns out to be a glimpse of our hopes, our dreams, what we search for so longingly, a picture on the wall of an empty room, only a painted image of what we really want. So we wait for the stars, wait for that chance to make our wish once again. Wish and be disappointed. Once again. And so we end up running from room to room, back and forth down this long,dark tunnel, over and over again, finding only the same room, over and over again, with the same painting, over and over agian. And the cycle continues as very few of us manage to climb our way out, stuck, forever spiraling in this gaping black hole of depression we falsely assume to be living. This Hell-hole of disexistence we call life. But if this is what life is, I want no part of it.