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To be? That is the puzzling question argued to be the answer for the question of life. Typically this inquiry is mistaken for the question from a brilliant book of poetry written long ago. Agrivated, the one's dazzled by this question but find not the answer, slip away. The true question is, is there a reason? Are just some chemicle reaction to mighty explosions between the moon and earth? Or is there some creator behind us, with some plan inpercievable.

Weary from his atrocious adventure, the lone, tiresome knight lay himself down as an old dog prepares for sleep. Though he found it not, the warrior was tortured by the wonderful thought of sleep. Pondering his conciousness, he began again on the road headed for somewhere unkown.
If anyone called it a sky, the cloudy sea of pitch blackness that loomed maliciously above the despairing traveler densed and become all the more black, if possible. As a snake strikes its prey, the lightning engaged the deep, dense, dark sky in a feirce battle of the snapping of lightning and the clapping of thunder.
Finally, under the unseeable but trecherous eye of the underlord, the solitary figure of the warrior fell into the grimy, dead sand and a timeless word was muttered. The word was, "help!"

(to be continued)