Theres a pistol on the table certainly within me there an overgrown thistle of a life. Neither skies nor fingers can be counted on Greenness or light, standing blindly and desperately I embrace it. In the midst of an absence-revealing wind, still I am standing
Is it loaded or not? Will that time come or not? Objecting to war is fine, but arent you objecting to humanity? Theres a pistol on the table, theres a pistol on the table. Is it the promised flower? Or is it the weight of betrayal?