And Awn, and awn.

Ravens play the game of bat and ball outside, their boisterous voices floating down, frequency higher, shriller as they argue regarding the rules. Somewhere a twig has broken, somewhere a branch has fallen. In the perpetual flitting of time, the order does not seem to matter as long as it goes on. Winds knock a nest askew, asking the parents to return, maybe voicing the emotions of those it nursed.

Swishing away, the nymph caresses my face while a melancholic lullaby echoes in the back ground. I cannot immediately realise therefore that it is the harried outlook of my neighbours that makes this anger grow. Helicopter blades, can you possibly cut me into pieces? Can you take each sinew of mine and turn it into an electrical circuit for your kin?

Solipsism goes forth and then returns, along with it the torrential hatred. It cannot go on, no, I contradict myself too much. The last rays of the sun acknowledge my cognisance, and I wink at it as it goes, the secret game of two comrades enveloped by ink.

This will happen again. Time, that bastard.


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