Back from the Shadowlands

The floods of Autumn continue, but they are nothing to the mental torrent of twisted, maniacal, chemically induced apparitions reminiscent of none but Poe. The physicians have done their work, tinkering with their potions, gleefully observing the torturous distortions, wrought by demons of glee, all in service to healing, to staying in the game, finding a new way, giving hope a chance to occur, giving science a shot at finding a breakthrough, giving sufferers in the battle for acuity a shred of hope, even if fleeting, even if nothing, there will be an outcome, and it might as well be positive, nothing ventured, nothing gleaned, all effort is good, all love is beneficent, passed on, in the branching forth of discovery, there is ALWAYS hope and love. Sometimes it takes a darkened, gloom-benighted sphere to rouse the angry call from the universe, the dampening of hope, the miscalculations, the possibility of despair, but through it all a guiding potentiality that refuses to dim. Teach us good lord, to serve as thou deservest; to give and not to count the cost; to fight and not to heed the wounds; to toil and not to seek for rest; to labor and not to ask for any reward, save that of knowing that we do thy will.