What does it take for the heathen in squalor to adopt a more vivacious life? Obviously, the answer is neither Jesus nor Buddha. Not for our filthy gentile here.
He is a young man, all tall and well-built, as if walls are all around him. Always furious, he can chase away strangers like you and me within seconds of his piercing eye contact. For whatever reasons.
Whenever something inside is churning painfully, he runs like a cheetah would dash if a prey is in sight. He crushes those animal bones, then exacerbates further to will, for whatever reasons. He would grab just the meat and potatoes, grappling those dying hearts out of the antelopes. It eviscerates the pain.
Bless his empty soul, that deep hollowness of his heart. Blood, sweat, and more tears – and I mean that of a physical pain and none of those sadness – solely for the hardship of survival.
Only thing different about him from an animal would be his collection. Wide, long, collection of antlers. You would think that his exhibit is artsy. To him, though, it’s the only thing he savors.
Oh yes, some bawdy obsessions you might say too. He loves staring at them all, picturing each of those tall branches going in all directions into this shrew he just love picturing – this woman and her fierceness, along with her hollow heart, and their endless nights of mating. To what end? For whatever reasons.
He neither speak the human language nor even speak up. He only prides his very own humane killings, achieving those beautiful antlers, and then fantasizing about his imaginations. Those wild, Arabian nights.
After all, our modern nonfiction is nothing but a travesty in classical literature, except sugarcoated with formalities such as lies, damned lies, and statistics.
Welcome to the next literature. Here’s an app brought to you by his digs for numbers. Truth to be told? Incinerate them, for whatever reasons.
www.creativecopychallenge.com
He is a young man, all tall and well-built, as if walls are all around him. Always furious, he can chase away strangers like you and me within seconds of his piercing eye contact. For whatever reasons.
Whenever something inside is churning painfully, he runs like a cheetah would dash if a prey is in sight. He crushes those animal bones, then exacerbates further to will, for whatever reasons. He would grab just the meat and potatoes, grappling those dying hearts out of the antelopes. It eviscerates the pain.
Bless his empty soul, that deep hollowness of his heart. Blood, sweat, and more tears – and I mean that of a physical pain and none of those sadness – solely for the hardship of survival.
Only thing different about him from an animal would be his collection. Wide, long, collection of antlers. You would think that his exhibit is artsy. To him, though, it’s the only thing he savors.
Oh yes, some bawdy obsessions you might say too. He loves staring at them all, picturing each of those tall branches going in all directions into this shrew he just love picturing – this woman and her fierceness, along with her hollow heart, and their endless nights of mating. To what end? For whatever reasons.
He neither speak the human language nor even speak up. He only prides his very own humane killings, achieving those beautiful antlers, and then fantasizing about his imaginations. Those wild, Arabian nights.
After all, our modern nonfiction is nothing but a travesty in classical literature, except sugarcoated with formalities such as lies, damned lies, and statistics.
Welcome to the next literature. Here’s an app brought to you by his digs for numbers. Truth to be told? Incinerate them, for whatever reasons.
www.creativecopychallenge.com
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