Nothing burns worse than the absence of something gaping like the soul of the unwanted. Wandering around, and the words do not lie in cowardly murder, in the power of the pumping hearts and flowing blood, flying above in all kinds of seasons and torments. All that was needed is a piece of paper, something more sharpened than the sword itself, something more promising and threatening than the spells. The win of immortality, to be burnt with ambition. And by that, the gentleness comes, not from the craving for violence but the desire to be blessed by the delicate, to stand upon all the underwhelmed, despite all the abundance of every single stumble. Never let the thoughts haunt the corner of the psyche, no porcelain poltergeist. Let it go and be infatuated with what's lacking, control what you believe underneath your steps. Create ancient hymns as many as possible, unrecognized genius until the idea finally flows and comes to a surface, make the disclosure so strong that everything is lit up by dimming brightness and collapsed under how heavy the burdens that are finally able to let go. Let the portraits riddled with decay, shove interests in redemption. And everything is finite, make a heaven of hell and a hell of heaven.