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'Shot'em.'
Echoes...
'Shot'em.'
Echoes...
'I'll love you more when you shoot them with our's old, plastic love, but metal bullets.'
And, revenge-soaked love...
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He shot the man down. There was no sign of mercy or fear on his face. He had just dropped his hive on the ground, the hot hilt of the gun numbed his hand, giving him a completely different and genuine pleasure. As if the essential element that feeds your soul is blood. So, he reminded himself of his old words about bloodlust.
''Gonna drop your body. And also, gonna drop my words on it. Nobody will listen to my voice dripping blood anyway.'' Because silence is best for a lympathic and masterful murderer, like the time from a crying, dried up boy to a man cut without crying. After all, isn't time actually the biggest killer? The thing called time is indeed a great concept that has no mercy on living people, even arrogant to the souls that gently stroll in its curves. In time, people die, and become immortal with memories of seconds. But there's no second chance and going back. Besides going backwards, you can't even look back. Because we're, the humanity, run out of the time. When we leave the murderer of our soul and become a new rotten layer in the soil layers, we will only be the right-hand man of the killer who manipulates the time in our soul. We will lie under the cold, underground and watch our youth diminish over time. Can we say ''We found our souls, and we're happy.'' when we dead? Or we'll say ''The deaths found us,'' when the souls are on the run to love and war wonderland.
Wonderland, wonders, will the distinctions be made on the loveless sons of the loveless God, the human beings? Will the arms of Jesus be tense again in order to protect humanity and prevent mother nature from experimenting?
But even if we are closed underground to protect ourselves from the weather, we cannot resist rotting and time. Even though the smell of death looms in the air, the place where the shelter is buried may consist of the killing furnace. For this very reason, it is inevitable to remain unknown. Since the smell of the death of the holy father is dispersed in the air away from us, we do not know that time is driving toward death.
And selfless wonderland, says: ''Heaven and hell..? How ridiculous.'' It, the heaven word, sounds like the stretch out version of hell, beautifully illustrated by stretching it's rules. What about hell? Well, they say that even the pitch black is better than the unknown. However, there is one thing that bloody red tends to turn into brown, which is the closest color to black. As the shaped and black smoke rises from the fires, the tip of the devil's tail and the horns of the devils roasted in the flames show black spots. The light oranges scattered in between the red and the pitch color passing through the dark orange are thus formed.
Balaam, in the manner of a God, initiated the person who would be burned in hell in the basin that opened up to the pool of life of sinful demons and angels soaring in pure clarity. He did not know how he had suddenly become sacred and plunged on the edge of madness, but being stuck in contrast felt better than feeling claustrophobic. He did not feel the pain of the dozens of luck he lost and became abstract without being concrete.
