I'm spring cleaning, not joyously, not lazily, but almost in grief.

Spring cleaning but sweeping and clearing the battlefield. Though tired and battered, stumbling and tumbling and lunging myself upon enemies laying in their half-dead, half-slumber; I must take great diligence to ensure their remains, like weeds, are not left cast upon the ground, lest they take root in soil to become rich again. I have fought this battle in many locations. Many battlefields scar my sodden land, where the demons laying dying rose up and spawned the devilish mischief that of only which they could conjure. I knew better than to give myself, or them, respite. This was to end.

The end draws near, and though my legs ache and shake as though the earth itself had begun to quake, I'm wobbling onward, a confounding oxymoron in itself brought about by such a sordid fatigue of which words can not give justice; drunkenly focused, dissociated and determined: I WILL BE FREE