I stare at the tall figure standing in front of me. White male, mid thirties, already balding, and a crazy look in his blue eyes. The veins in his neck are bulging, his hands hold the hatchet so tightly they’re shaking.

I’m tied to a chair, hands shackled in my back, ankles bound to the feet. It’s easy to guess what drives him. _Power_. Too bad for him though, I happen to know the script for that ...

Though she always wakes up late, she manages to be on time every day, makeup and hair done. Why bother eat breakfast, when you can brunch?

Everything about that girl is fast paced. From the way she walks down the street, to the way she talks or swipes through her most liked songs. She only takes the time to sit down when she visits her grandmother, the rest of the time she eats lunch in between tw...

The trees have eyes,

But no mouth.

The trees have arms,

But no articulations.

The trees have skin,

And they spill blood.

But they have no teeth.

The trees can receive,

But not reject.

The trees can hurt,

But not defend.

The trees mourn,

And they fear.

But they cannot avenge.

The trees must watch,

And must stay still.

The trees are witnesses wrapped in bark.

Foretellers,

cursed with the power...

I met you at last,

thought our paths would never cross.

And already the

absolutism of my

devotion could shatter all....

I would suffer a thousand more years,

stuck alone in this rotten world.

I would bear the pain of being away from her,

like Atlas bore the sky.

I would wait for her another few milleniums,

if it all meant I could hold her face again,

even for just a moment.

The last flutter of her eyelash,

was the last spurt of life that shook my body.

I have not felt my heart since.

They returned her to the groun...

Even the dead tell stories,

If you only lend an ear to hear them,

If only you take the time,

To bow your head and look.

Though their eyes have melted,

And their skin was ripped,

And their flesh was eaten,

Their bones still remain at the end of times.

On the bended femur,

Is written a tale of hate.

In the cracks of the ribs,

Is carved the echo of a scream.

The broken knuckles,

Witnesses of a fig...