Darkness. The kind of that which surrounds one until its black loneliness has pierced the minds of all. The sort of that which engulfs the soul until one's heart has fully quenched its thirst with drink from uncertainty's overflowing cup of insuppressible fear.
It was this that plagued my being, this that encased my whole. It tormented my conscience with its vast emptiness, secreting within my infected soul a toxin of almost unbearable measure.
Yet in this darkness I found completion. Here within, my spirit thrived, and I embraced the gift of unfeeling ignorance it had bestowed upon me with a scorning gratitude. Music therein feasted, pouring out unto this vile obscurity the purest of sounds, which could only emanate from the innocent souls of the blessed.
The blessed, yes. Or of one so despised that he could no longer bear to carry within himself the anguish of this accursed world, thus the gentle melody which rests so sweetly upon the ear, as does the crystalline sound of a twinkling bell, is no longer composed of the innocent nature of purity, but of atrocity's fallible desire to be loved, to just once be accepted. It was here, at last, that I found beauty.
I was pleased, at first, in my solitude. The silence I cherished, extending both arms in greeting to this new ambiance in which I was to live the remainder of my life. Nothing could break me now from these accursed chains that bound me so mercilessly to the gates of hell, never again to bear witness to the sunlight. It was my will, I so believed. Nothing could persuade me. Nothing, except for the voice of an unexpectant innocent child.
"Who are you?"
"I am your angel of music."