Sometimes, when he just waited within the careless questions of his heart he couldn’t really hear himself. He wasn’t here. No being. Sometimes, when he wanted to talk to somebody, just expose himself in it utter most sensitivity, like a dead rose sinking in the flesh. The large metal clock TICKED, within the brass gold coated ring around its face. The train station was dead, despair was a constant character falling in love with his own hands, looking deadly and silently into them. He wandered past the metal enclosures of hotdog stands. The morning was never to come. He knew this cause he didn’t no one about it. He was so sure of his morning, but was it the morning of other people. Yet he hung around. His hoofs plastered and concealed into the ground with nowhere to go — but here and there. The favor was his coat, and it wasn’t about him naked and exposed in skin. More in the chastise of a strange convulsion.
The nuclear birds were singing black metal screeches that violated the tinge of humanity. There was a mystifying warning of a sort of decadent exposure of the nihilistic nature of the universe. It will, would have or should have sucked it all into a careless emptiness. The wisdom was shaken in him. Often contradicting himself. Nothing was new to him. All new appeared dead. And the dead even more so. Why is there still lust in a broken heart he thought. Staring lost into the magnificent concrete tiles of the train station. White and creamy tiles, seeping into its concrete base, where memories were never to come out again.
Why was there lust, and a dire craving for a crude sort of beastly passion that confided in him. Within the cage he himself was trapped in and battling his subtle consciousness. The tyranny of truth he thought, as he lifted his head up to the white lights, that glared onto him in an unbearable extent. Was the source of both condescending pillars of humanity. Exceeding that, life and all its equivalents in an unparalleled harshness. The ferns would feed you and yet prick you with its poison. And we shouldn’t pay any heed to this tyrannical exposure of the most blatant truth.
So there he was in the feathery texture of his wool peacoat seizing the opportunity of thought. And as he walked, disecting the universe in buddhist tradition, but with a Nietzsche facelessness. And all elements kept escaping him, transcending into further extortion of the sane, merging into either darkness or light. And asking more favors to rediscover what could possibly not, nor even ever will be.
Then he saw him. There he was, standing with a fine grey felt hat on his head, a polished alligator skinned suitcase in his right hand. And stark naked beyond the impenetrable.
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