The night was dark. Pitch black as ebony. Thick, putrid clouds, swirling yet stagnant, a confused cloud of shadows, chaotic and ugly. The repulsive, murky mist of lies and darkness seemed to smother the filthy ghost of a once-white mansion
The seemingly sinister gas brewed like a storm, disturbing and convoluted as a filthy pond - the waters stirred darkly as pungent, coal-black mud was upset by unseen forces, the clarity and sweetness of prestine water now a distant memory. Echoing cries for restoration long since drowned out by the low, droning roar of the turmoltuos, all consuming cloud of despair.
But then -
But then, through the tarr black haze, where all hope was lost
But then, through the tarr black haze, a clear, pure note.
The sound of a distant trumpet, a battle cry, a chorus of distant, thundering feet pounding against the dusty roads, angry.
Angry, angry people, but angry was not all these people were.
Angry, angry, but these people who would become our saviors were hopeful.
Clear, blue passion, streaked crimson with fury.
They radiated from these people, protests.
These people cared. And with this care the people began to clear the stagnant water of lies and immorality, closer and closer to the crystal, sparkling pool of idealism.
And though the water never sparkled as much as the eyes of these people did when they spoke of their hopes and dreams, these people were satisfied, having made the lives of the people around them just that much better. And how? Oh, just a dash of passionate action.