Looking back at self-portrait was bewitching. Self-abuse? Do you think we should start preparing for a holy murder?
Like bad sex, you hold a blue thought and pick up a fight with a radical dialogue. If birds start leaving, what you plan to do with contemporary poetry?
In a locked room you left your bloody footprints, sometime back. Now you are caught with a broken pen. Time was up. Hand over your lips and become mute.
