These questions keep bugging me. I have chopped of their legs and arms, and leave them in the storage room to die, rotting. I guess by now I should have known that they're immortals.
Motherfuckers who travel from one corner to another, eating on conscience and patience. Having crumbs of confidence scattered on the floor of desperation. Some piles up to be anguished memories, some shaped into agitation.
Patience is betraying, a coward bitch who runs off when melancholy gives surprises. Soul hates ugly surprises, as they exist to give heart constant attacks. Poking holes on thin faith, poor girl had nothing to begin with.
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