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Filling his nostrils, cold and moist against his cheek. The primitive taste of it, like licking a grave. Prayers tossed from his mind to the heavens as stray small coins are tossed into a fountain. His left arm throbbing beneath his weight. All around him
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Some people burn slowWhile others burn fastAnd betweenAll kind of things happen:There's happiness sadnessJoy and angerSicknessThings happenAnd when you are in theWorldThe worlds molds youWith all it elixirs and tempationsThe good timesThen come the wounds and scarsAnd the…
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