It lies before you, the endless waste. The dirt grinds pitifully beneath your shoes, and the wind blows through you, cold and penetrating. It blows from one direction, and then another, making mournful sounds as it chills you through your thin clothing. You stare out to the distance, trying to make out mountains, shapes, anything, and there is nothing. You forced this pilgrimage upon yourself, and now you'll undertake it, all of it.
 
You start walking, and dead shrubs snap as you walk over them. You shudder, trying not to think. Not of the dead wasteland that surrounds you, not of the wind of remorse that is now at your back, restless, not of your crimes. Not of mistrust, not of lies, not of pain, not of pleasure, not of a warm body that once rested besides you in your bed. You close your eyes, clench your teeth, and walk forward.
 
It hurts, doesn't it?
Oh, it hurts like hell, you mutter. It hurts like an inferno in there, in your chest. The wind makes your teeth chatter, but inside it burns, it burns so horrifically you think of blackened bones and ruined tissue, you think of homes going up in flames, of wooden beams crashing down and screams. You think about what you've done, and want to scream at least as hard. You want to scream like an insane person, like a murder victim, like a man at the stake.
 
You stride onwards, and let out a howl towards the uncaring sky. You howl of madness and you howl of misery and you howl of lost and broken things. Your throat aches as you vomit forth paI'M WORTHLESS AND I WANT TO DIE