I go to the Pit sometimes. In my time in the Pit, I have learned little of its many wrinkles and quirks. I don't always know how to get out. Sometimes I don't even understand why I'm in. Sometimes, I must fall asleep in the Pit and I'll wake up outside of it.

I cannot control when I go to this transient space, but the time spent in the Pit has caused muck and filth to pile up under my feet. The more the Pit fills with filth, the higher I climb. One day, I hope, I will be high enough to climb right out as soon as I fall into the Pit.

Pits as a representation of melancholia are tired. But I will not sacrifice sincerity for originality.