XXXIII

              "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