Amazingly depressive: a few words, some alcohol, and a walk home alone are enough to negate all the good things that can happen in a night. Not eradicate, mind you, but negate them, by putting all the pissant miserable things in the forefront of your mind.

It takes hope, Sentenced, and, oddly enough, nostalgia to be able to go to bed without feeling bitter and desirous of futility's embrace.