If it rusts, it can never be trusted; if its owner fails to control it, it will cut him; yes, pride is like a blade.

Author.
Red like blood. White like bone. Red like solitude. White like silence. Red like the beastly instinct. White like a god's heart. Red like thawing hatred. White like a frozen, pained cry. Red like the night's hungry shadows. So shooting through the moon in a sigh is like radiant white, scattered red.
~That's me

I do not fight because I think I can win. I fight because I have to win.

~

What's the difference between a king and his horse? I don't mean kiddy shit like "One's a person and one's an animal" or "One has two legs and one has four." If their form, ability and power were exactly the same, why is it that one becomes the king and controls the battle, while the other becomes the horse and carries the king?! There's only one answer. Instinct! In order for identical beings to get stronger and gain the power they need to become king, they must search for more battles and power! They thirst for battle, and live to mercilessly, crush, shred, and slice their enemies! Deep, deep within our body lies the honed instinct to kill, and slaughter our enemies! But you don't have that! You don't have those pure, base instincts! You fight with your brain. You try to defeat your enemies with logic! And it doesn't work! You're trying to cut them with a sheathed sword! That's why you're weaker than me


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CHAPTER #27 ~Oprobriul
joi, 25 august 2016 || 8/25/2016 01:38:00 p.m.

[...] Şi de-atunci, pe todeauna, Corbul stă, şi stă întruna, 
Sus, pe albul bust, deasupra uşii mele, pânditor, 
Ochii veşnic stau de pază, ochi de demon ce visează, 
Lampa îşi prelinge-o rază de pe pana-i pe covor; 
Ştiu, eu n-am să scap din umbra-i nemişcată pe covor. 
Niciodată – Nevermore.

- "Edgar Allan Poe - Corbul"

Starile aride datorate unui psihic incert se aseamana cu deglutitia unei sticle de lesie. Framantarile interioare se cladesc treptat, cu o anumita savoare negrabita de factorii externi. Elementele descriptive filelor de consum psihic se deslusesc prin contemplarea nejustificata a intamplarilor din trecut, ce au ajuns ancorate mintii noastre printr-o asimilare emotionala, fara a o interpreta rational si obiectiv. Ultimele franturi ale acestei vieti sunt neverosimile pe altarul timpului, dar noi continuam sa ne perindam ideile, emotiile, trairile...doar din pura satisfactie ca ne amintim de ele, intregi, asa cum ne iluzionam ca sunt.