There are people who suffer the consequence of a moment of neglect, the tiniest mistake. Overall, when they win with hardship three moves in a row, their action is felt like an act of provocation, and are send every which way but at least six moves in reverse. I gather a long time ago, that I belong to that category of involuntary sinners. Fair play is an abstract notion, the shadows are larger than ourselves and we're outrun by them. Like the haunting of a Black Hound, following the track of its victims, outsmarting their bid for a safe den. And so we're left with this existential crisis, wondering if that's all to it what we call life, do we have something to show for. Are we condemned to reap only the leftovers, in youth and old age, then wither, til no memory about us lingers forth and everyone else just continues with the order of the day. Move over, sucker, you're done for!.. We yearn for peace and serenity, and it hasn't happen yet and if we tas...
'How did I come into this', he told himself in thoughts, munching on a buttered ham sandwich, matter-of-factly, with the air of a man who has seen it all and came to accept the vicissitudes of life, still somewhat grudgingly. Suddenly, unaware that his moody rethoric question would turn out to be an adumbration of his forthcoming brewing imagination,this lama guy materializes close to him, floating saintly above the floor, all rugose leathery skin, all the bearings of sanctity, and all Eastasian insular smugness that comes with those ruddy chaps. It was one of those reincarnistas , who play with words: dharma, karma but sadly no shoarma to salivitate his appetite running asunder. The lama secreted bliss and smiled patronizing. No less like a magician holding all cards and conning the crowd to believe in his tricks. His speech was sheer catechismus,repeated over time til his voice, now shrill and trembling, buckling under all that panache, could no longer mask that his enl...
a sad soul listens to the rain pattering against the door. the litany of the shrieking wind carries a melody of hate and knock out any trail of thoughts, while wood works and walls protest with catatonic pertinence that match the mellow stillness of this loner whose eyes ache under the strain of warm hopes and brilliant mental exploits, sailing to perdition. open sea: the body of water cavorts with the seething lust of the gale, they turn and twist in vertiginous pitches, their heaving collapses in droning rumbles, excreting white horses running afoul towards the pristine shore of a land hunched in a frozen woe. in all its exaltation, the sea emerges as the deeply furrowed face of an elderly man, in pain and struggling to breath, smothered as he is in the foggy gray curtain of an unkempt beard, while hours or seconds pass by in an eerie limbo that is deafening in its all-encompassing silence. the individual opens the door, his cries bring no tears, his shouts...
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