Dead cold morning he despised, every time he saw his face in the settled mist, of the second month. He walks as if he had stored his contempt within himself. Pursed lips, which feebly hold the roll, forces the tobacco to smog him to clarity. Walking down the lane as many others have he stops to correct his bad posture. Soon before he realizes it over takes him. Ruffling his beard and his stubble makes him think about all the enemies that had sworn against his beliefs. As he walks again the yellow line, never had he felt so naked, in the warmth of his tux of complete black. Being a creature of Yin he is left shivering on the open road. No house has he seen yet that comforts him. Static in his head disturbs him as he wrestles with his demented coiffure against the winds of shame. Feeling beat up he has lost the hope and means of reproducing him. To see the eyes that shine with his name in them. To be theirs. Succumbing to his own reality he makes his away from inside to know what’s left of his outside. The yellow trail never makes him loose mark. He needs that instant drive to kill him. Something that prolongs his misery but also provide him with a need to show them. The world that he praised, the world that he dreamt of making one. Now turns to be a curator to his own epitaph. To show with contempt what he brazes when he make something far apart one.
One Muddled Lie.
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