"How'd you do that?"       His visage hewn a sapid smile at that. He was enjoying the effect of the alakazam on her. The effect of it on her reaction. Of course she seemed intruged and swept of her feet. His eyes widened at intervals whenever she gave gaunt gaze. Of course he knew what that meant, but he wouldn't savor. He had learnt to deal with all sorts of things. He had learnt to sort them. He had learnt to make them count. He had learnt to pull the rage and entice his will. He was a clone of himself at that moment.      She was looking at the tree. She hadn't quit looking at it. He was sure that she could stand forever there trying to make meaning of what had just happened. The pair of clothes hanging from her shoulders to her waist, shielded her pulpy tits. She seemed to have more than she was supposed to. They were such that, if they had their way they could come

              "Atta."      His lips rehearsed. Twas to himself. His eyes were wide. His rage was kindled. There was no one to assert it on. He wasn't actually willing to assert it on  anyone but of course he would be very glad to do it if the opportunity came tumbling to his way. He would be very glad to snap at it. How heavenly it would be for him to have a grasp on it and tell himself that things would work out differently. Tell himself that he would pass the test of time. That he would last the ordeals and wiles. That he would make pawn of so many a stances. But he knew that he was telling himself a lie. He knew what a lie was and would not hold back its semantic denotations. He needn't to be so worry about so many a things. Of what use was it to him? Of what stance was it to him? Worry is a figment of illusion which makes itself feel as though it's more than what exactly it is. It

   *How much longer would we have to walk?*       He didn't know what to say or ask. His thoughts were of their own accord. They flowed freely with no objection or restriction. And he had no right to stop or mute them. He simply would let them be and doing that wouldn't be too much a task. His legs were beginning to quake. Like the hankering of the hoisted hay. Like the lips of a wrenching cloud. Like the hips of a pregnant woman. He could simply just stop walking. He could really. He felt the hurl urge to, but he decided to ignore it. It's been a voluptuous while since he took that kinda walk. He was used to carriages and carts. He wouldn't had mind if she had asked them to use either of the two. But he had simply followed outta what he would call love or whatever. He was sure that he wasn't in love with her. How could he be? They hadn't been acquainted since like forever. She had been only a stranger in his life. A visitor in his

   [Arrrgghhh] He turned firstly on the berth as though he was going to roll off. He steadied his body and decided to have his pupils hid behind the cottage of the eyelids. Hell no he thought. That was not the best option that moment. He wanted to assume the clone of gloom again but he knew quite alright that he stood no chance. He really loved to delve into that substratosphere, but he couldn't just blend. He knuckled under doing the right thing. Or to say, the supposed right thing. He opened his eyes. They were not of their own makes. He could tell the difference. His eyes always weren't like that. He wanted the sleep more than he wanted life. He knew that but wouldn't deceive himself. He knew that achieving that would be a moaning mirage at that moment. Then he ignored. He looked towards the spot his eyes would always travelled to after sleep. He wanted to jump up and squash his doubt, then rustic reality made pawn of his marred memory. Hell forgetf

    "Uhmmmm."      He acted as though he was confused. Like the Monarch didn't say anything positive about the Cod. Like something of such sort. He looked the Cod over again with the impression of raising his hope for naught. His plans were hideous and probably trained by dimwittedness. There were obviously a lot etched or seeped in the eerie expression which his face puked. The Cod tried very hard to be patient and sane. Not to prick some hideous act. The porter looked through him, then past him, considering the plain. The Cod had no idea what kinda psycho such porter was. He probably was pawning him. He probably was a clown. That didn't matter to him. He hated jokes. If the porter did know who he was, he wouldn't prune such jolting jokes before him. A part of the Cod wanted to smash the Porter's head. He wanted to crush his guant guts and teach him how to deal with strangers. He thought over it again. He wanted t