mint that strawberry, mulling pestle fisted in contemplative thought. lost in thoughts: clouds of fear, carnal lust, and rage. steady rhythm to sepulcher impulses clawing desperately the innards. ice, honey and water, mixed in with mashed pulp 'di fragola e menta' soothes and cools as it goes down. yet, peace does not come from incessant lightning storms of neuronal triggerings.
resolved to walk through the thick fog, the devil is loose. he is blood-lust. rampage his mood is not. eyes cold, he cares not.
where is the cozy warmth, the love? he struggles to find and understand it. did it exist before, to be quelched over time, or did it ever exist? would he recognize and acknowledge if he came across it? questions that cannot be answered. Time might tell. but no one asks Time expecting a real Answer...
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