Once upon a time, in the middle of our lives, I found myself walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

Among all forms of existence, shadows are the most miserable beings, for they lack a soul and only harbor a weak and fearful weeping that breaks under the yoke of unfathomable demons.

However, it must not be forgotten that even the most repulsive of creatures comes from an innocent genesis, the loving union between their creators, for life itself is a miracle of love. And it must not be forgotten that it is those who win the battle who write the story. Thus, history will never favor the defeated, who must wander in exile, renouncing their truth. But every monster had a mother. Every Cain was born of an Eve, and even Lucifer himself has a story to tell.

In this place, there is neither day nor night, and only the concept of silence is familiar, briefly interrupted by the sound of an agonizing breeze, a murmur, a tangible lament, whose origin, although unknown, I suspect comes from the black mountains. I have walked for so long trying to reach those distant lands that I have no memory of when I arrived here. Have I always been here, perhaps? I have already stayed too long. I have forgotten my history and my origins. For now, I am just a being wandering in this endless desert. A shadow surrounded by the overwhelming distance of black mountains outlined by a spectral whiteness crest that fades into an infinite horizon. A ghost wandering in desolation, sheltered by a sky of oppressive and murky clouds that stretch to the remoteness of this shadowy dimension.

There is no deeper confinement than the ubiquitous torment that slowly stones the spirit. There is no more impassable prison than the one built within the mind. There is no more infinite jail than the one that has no walls.