In his hand. Cold and steely. Metallic persuasion. Shakespeare, The Prophet, wise more than us mere mortals could ever know. "To be or not to be? " That no longer seems the question. The answer is clenched, burning in his palm. Fire. Pain. Anger. Melancholy wisps floating in the air. Hovering in his car. Those final moments alone. When rhetoric no longer matters. Everything melts around him. The wisps die. City sounds drain away. The stars fall. In one move. Silence.
|The views expressed in this article are the sole responsibility of the author
and do not necessarily reflect those of this website or its editors.