The dance with the devil is not a wild affair. It is sad, and it is cold. Each step is meticulous with hopelessness. It is arms wrapped tightly around a black hollow. It is the dance you dance while warily observing all of those that you love, walk off and away. It is where you go to hear your name, lonesome, echoing in the dark. Where you are remembered, but only by you. And made to keep on, waltzing.