Mystique.

Time came when I met a man who doesn’t speak much. He sits there watching, contemplating and smoking. The way he smokes, I’ve never seen someone else do it like him before. He would sit, rest his elbow on his knee, holding the cigarette, and he’d move to reach its tip rather than move his arm up to be able to drag on it. This position sort of gave him the air of anticipation and of challenge, as if he is looking the world in the eye and asking it to give him its best shot. His strong black body gave him further air of wisdom. Few are the times, I spoke to this man, and all were pleasant, deep and blessed except for one.

“He believes you`re as important as a feather in the sky of his memories, flying endlessly, without having the least bit of control over yourself. He loves watching you, wanting to scream yet unable to, like a wounded chained straw dog, watching the carnival from behind the shatters on an old wooden deserted door. He knows you`re aching and breaking, and he wants more. He`d look up at the sky and watch you stray and bleed, and he`d lay a kiss on her forehead because he was touched by the awe of such a scene. They’d stretch their bare feet to feel the grass they are relaxing on. It seems you have been the empress each king strives to please but secretly wishes to devour. And devoured, he shall make you. Your tears, young child, are precious to me. They’re like diamonds that fall off your green irides, and they are invaluable. Yet, to him, your tears are an outstanding revenge platter, and never did a platter so cold taste so good. I can ask you to stop, but I won`t be able to make you.”

“They slit our throats, like we were flowers – and our milk, has been devoured.” – Marilyn Manson.