There is nothing left but the reserved resoluteness of the untouched depths when unending torment is expressed through anguished breaths of the insomniac who flirts with the seducing whispers of death. Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God—pray for us all, for we are tearful as we continuously fall. Winter is here now, and the trees are stripped of their leaves. Mercy is no more, for the afflicted struggle to breathe. There is a dreadful recompense that will cause all oppressors to cry out in excruciating pain as they are brought to their knees. The anguished no longer ask for understanding, for the depths of them have already been revealed.