deaths arms was a golden prize for the boy that stared at the walls cracks on the morning of june 1995. envisioning black angels sweeping his mortal body into a swirling vapour of misery none can tell of.

he was a wave in the sea, the mist in the mountains, the dew in the grass; a temporal asset to the world that was perishing in its evil.

an orchestra of thick-coated sadness blazing his unkempt figure, wanting nothing more than to stop time and disappear with the clouds.

gone with the wind. poof. nothing. calm.