Bump for the stumbling, the fallen and the tripped. In a perfect world, you would be steadied, caught or avenged. And they know it - their darkest hour tells them they are forsaken, the quiet whispers remind them of their foul nature. Pillows stained with dank, reeking mediocrity, and dreams sweaty from running, losing a death race to the rank horror of retribution slathering at their heels. je me souviens