It is 2:03 am in the dead of the night. Lonely, my spirits wallow in sad tunes, and a mosquito plays a fiddle over my ear to add color to my discomfort. This here compounds to the literal definition of "facing the music." This ensnaring labyrinth of a space denies me ease, like a sinner in purgatory, while the demons that live inside my head compete for my neck. It is a well-dug abyss of torture! In there, I am presented with images of my brokenness and my mortal inadequacies, against a world measured by the broken scales of perfection. I, however, lack the kind of godliness to save myself from...