Pounding through the Lost confusion was a tranquility of a summer day dream. Whisperings of bated breath softly exhaled to needles we loved the summer of joy, the summer of hate this summer the sun never had risen. The summer our eyes stared blankly at awkward forming clouds. We danced Joy infields freshly bloomed oblivious to reality . That was a time of hate, a time of anger a time of love where àll was lost in the Poppy induced cancer of agonizing lies.