Erfolg

It is not a rather peculiar case of anything of any sorts, but rather a simple tale of nothing.

This forgiving day, those little warm eyes grew weary and then were shut, all that was said was that I've never seen such kind eyes for a long time.

His shadows stood from afar, a stout figure of an authoritarian, many people would not see his point of view but to a rather strict extent, he conveyed it, at least, he made them hear him. His claws were no longer sharp and lay sheathed, he couldn't take a bite off of his opponents, alas, his fangs still bore a mark on their skins.

He laid down and started drifting into a dream, and it seems it swirled anti-clockwise. Who knew of that little part that he knows not of? He was not dreaming anymore but he stood up to his dismay, a figure of scarcity and alienness. He picked up his pace and strode away, but what he never knew was that face he has seen, a significant myriad of shapes pieced together, to form a perfect identity.

Though he lay fatigued, he wore his snickers and took his little coat and went out. But all of this story meant of nothing but an affliction of a series of random events that happened to him, and that you would just want to smack your computer by reading this.

Just drop it, he said, he couldn't find the capacity to let his books fall to his toes and hit his toes. That would be overwhelmingly stupid for himself to do so, and then he walked on, and continue living without his stubbed toes. We can continue this post forever, but if were to make any sense, I would have done it by now.

He came home, with his hat upon his head. Many a times, a lady would pass by and he would be certain to catch a look of her. His little figure walked along the path and soon he found himself home again. Little did he know that the city would not accommodate so much as to what he does in it, and he was just a measly old man who has retired into his husk. He knows a lot yet he knows nothing at all, but to go and proclaim everything which would mean the destruction of his fundamental identity, which he would certainly want to avoid.

The Bus came, and he hopped on, little to know that he had let go of his book on the bus station. Readily, he went on towards that very cosy place round the corner of the city, a newspaper editorial company, for whom he was invited to be interviewed. Later on he'd see that lady in red again, and that he couldn't help but to stare at her . She eloped by as he reached his destination.

There grew his shadows, as he walked in, but none of all that his fang could do, he was old. And that he said, was a quixotically interesting art of psychology he once possessed to make heads turn. He trod to the office where the editor had invited him. Sat on that chair, old, brown, perhaps a little dusty. And all he said was sound and full of fury, but signified nothing.

As of then he breathed his last, and of that moment he collapsed, no one knew what had happened later, but for this portion it did make sense, at least I hoped. But some said he had a smile etched upon his face, which he had never truly did until then.

Leaving back his legacy, we know of nothing of him anymore, but of his works. He had not died then but his last breath has been huffed out. The candle is blown and the curtain laid down.

If I had made you completely perplexed, that is probably the reason I blog. To fill in a little boredom with works that may make no sense, even at the umpteen time you try, but if you do, do understand that I am just filling in time and that I can in no way associate to any geniuses, gifted people. Thank you if you read until this PART, and I hope you can get some rest because I know that if you thought through it, you would have some kind of epileptic storm of sparks going through your mind.

To end, say your prayers and start it again.