In a life without fear I would not wait for death. Without the sweet, sweet taste of the uncertainty and rootlessness. I'm sick, but no more than my peers, those who can not take advantage of every tiny piece of time that mother nature gives them. That's why I hear a nun howling with rage and despair in the howling wind. A cry not addressed to men but to God that never existed, that they paint on canvas and rendered in standards. Pray for those prayers useless and that chastity of asylum. He inherited guilt. That repression unleashed violence and lust, poorer attributes of mankind. The control of the phallus on the mind.
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