Start it with a little scratch. Dig deep, shovel, and scoop. For it will flow from you. It will meet them, who will drink from it. They will spit your poison, sifted or mudded, they will make you ashamed. They are the birds, the flowers, the pigs, the frogs, the fish and the stones; the high, the shallow, the deep; the soaring, the floating, the flowing, the still; the inspired, the worthless, the hopeless… What would the killer of good know? Never witnessed the bird of his words, never were they engraved hopelessly by him. His poison fused in rivers of those whom he seduced. He was seduced too…

Once the weary shadow of him walked in front; loaded with hope, carried his gun the angel; softly, with a cheery slim tune, stirred the air the heart. Seventy seven superstitions made his body quiver - seventy seven lukewarm flows welled up. For seduced was the soul to put its hand in the spirit’s. For overheard their laughter the shadow and looked back, and it willed to betray that visit of the oneness to the king, and his kingdom, the abode that once hired the fear to kill the truth, neither have never left since, they have walked in and out irregularly, creating seventy seven doors each time, suffering the shadow with seventy seven holes. The will has come back and it will wall the doors, and whole the holes…

It's early in the morning by the clock. The ring of the hundred is about to loom yet another loop. But eyes can see, heart can feel, it is night, and sky cast with rain clouds. The August air is dump with rain, the light is obstructed with curious shapes of raindrops on window glasses. The tea cup is cold already, the fear is awake, for the king is dancing, and the shadow will betray it, lovingly. Once.