Spitting the blood, he said, every winter for few days – he would feel outcast and there was pain in the idea of pain, but he wanted to live without a painkiller.
Sometimes he will singe his hands on a flame to protect his dignity. The history of his unrest remaining untold. Then he will go out in rains of knowledge and soak himself in mixed joy.
A lump in the throat hurts, when he tries to decipher a dream to measure the life. A liar knows the complete death of a truth to assert his independent existence in myth.
A deadly poison of the choosing, your own microclimate, aggrandizement of royal tradition, makes you popular in masses. They surge to touch your gown, ripping the explosion.
