I’m David, I’d tell from the point of view of an assassin and a psychopath, a distorted version of how I feel, so if you might get weary or your mind is like the soft garden of clovers, I’d prescribe your absence from my thoughts, as fear… as something… as a real one… as your heart… There was a day I held a gun and pointed it to a soul; my heart rhythm made my arm fall down, but my goal was to shoot, so I raised it back, and everywhere was splattered with a new chapter of people who knew him. My goal was simple; my heart ought to be absent. It bothers me how it leapt out for a second, but I cage it like how God condemned the morning star.
I came out of his abode and blended back with onions and tomatoes, and the next soul was walking calmly; her voice had to be faint like Rusty Weathers, and her mind had to be silent and not worrisome, so that when I took her soul, it wouldn’t be a process of trauma; it’ll be a happy day till when she suddenly views the lights and trumpets of heaven. Until she sees everything but existence on earth.
My heart is also like the musty clay I moulded… I felt too… I flourish… not yet, but I had my heart rolled and smoked it with the morning star God condemned.
David (A WRITER'S BLOG) 