The bloody screams stain the diamonds

I hear the beautiful drums of the bloodied warriors as they run in a frenzy, swords and axes out, blood streaming down their bodies, mudding their pants. I listen as the glorious bastards sing their song of ransacking and I suddenly find myself in the quiet contemplation of love. What is this voice that screams? Is it made of the sorrow of a thousand years of obsequiously rewarding the warriors with gold and honor?

I think that if after so many years we could, at last, hear the prawny whispering of the winter wind, I would at least feel an inner joy of white inspiration. But nothing happens and nothing will. The world keeps turning on its axis. Its flat surface spins like a disk around the galaxy, reminding us of the glory of Martedon, the creator of the infinite universe.

Clapping hands resound in the black nothingness that comes right before the tender voice of a scream. I fall in love again, just as I predicted, as the level of pain rises into the untenable expanses of the excitement of the onlooking crowd. Destruction is an attractive thing that brings the eyes of many curious souls into one spot. The music in the dungeon brings tears to my face.

The serpentine voice of the wind

The serpentine voice turns harsh and with it comes the chorus of demons aspiring to be below me. The length of their claws becomes fixed as I see their beauty and say: "Your claws shall have fixed lengths". The walls around me store whiteness and release it only partly as the yellow light can only affect certain pigmentations.

I will say these words only once: Tenners are unholdable by definition. It's not meaningful the first time you read it, but after the fifth time, it starts making some sense. And after you've thought of the phrase a thousand times and analyzed it with proper philosophical discipline, you will realize that the truth of my words is the greatest truth of all. No one else will say those words and be as right as I am.

You might think I'm being playful, but the times I've been wrong can be counted on no hands since it has never happened. The cold white breeze of the uncountable sorrows has been previewed by the aesthetics council. They call for a stream of seals that fill the glaciers with some sort of electrical air. The void is monotonous today. Today, I can't recognize the old patterns weaved by the legendaries. Alas!

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