We trudge on and on thru this barren wasteland; the bitter wind whipping our faces. Ash falls from the gray sky as we continue forward. Our eyes, burning. Our hands, freezing.
All among us are sad and dreary. All are cold and lonely. We look ahead, and cannot yet make out the shape of our destination; where refuge awaits.
And yet, we press on in this brutal wasteland...this place they call The Offseason.
And we think of the day when this place will be no more.