Depression is like a great beast with leathern wings, crouching undetected in the shadows, awaiting a time when the shadows close in so that it can move forth without recognition, spreading its wings and landing upon the breast with a stifling and dreadful weight. It is ever-present, lurking just out of sight or clinging to the breast; it is subtle, but perpetual; hidden, but inexorable; and the sound of its breathing is the cares of this world.