Formless faces wandering up and down the streets. The fractured remains of better days drifting toward the final act. The Almost Men sag and lurch about as if intoxicated from the sweet ambrosia that is repetition. They sit, silent and paralyzed in dark rooms, transfixed by the equally alluring gazes of the twin Goddesses habit and addiction. The Almost Men were not always so lost and alone. In a time long past, or so they perceive, they were men of purpose and burning desire. They fought for the ideals they believed in. They dreamt of sailing a thousand different oceans; of passionately chasing the endless sky. However their mortal frames outlasted the fire that lit their souls. Leaving hollow husks too tired to deal with the onslaught of the world around them. So the Almost Men retreated into the safe patterns of repetitive existence and turned their backs on their once beloved ideals. Such is their curse, to be filled with great potential only to be consumed from the inside by the overwhelming sense of doubt and fate.