The sorry days pass by slowly. Willing to suffer doesn’t matter when the chains are bound so tight. I forget who holds the key, but when I remember I promise, the hell will break loose. The flegma sits dormant and stout. Willing it out won’t work. It needs a reason. Seems determined to stay. The exit strategy is above the neck, but where does this fight originate? I fear deep in the blackest hollow. A dark pestiferous slurry will find its path and make purchase among the dreaded. This won’t cure the ill, but it will give strength to the willing. I ride alone to fight with no chance for glory or admiration. I will use truth and find praise in the silence of victory.