Gone, Gone, Gone
And they would say that passion derives pleasure. That anger builds upon violence. They would say that with great responsibility comes great power. Who would we be to call them out? To call them wrong? We would be opinionated. We would be independent. We would think for ourselves.
Such beauty is adorned his steps, there is a torque to it, a confusing, grace fueled by power. His perfect muscles curving repeatedly beneath his taut flesh, his remarkable essence divine, his entity falling hardly short of the blood which flows through his veins, and that was perhaps, what had become most irrelevant to him. Blood. It was a fickle thing. Flowing. That was all it was. Liquid. Blood constantly fled bodies, and ironically, he could call it nothing more than liquid. Like water, it was a life source, and it too disappeared. It too was taken in by the environment, and yet, where blood soaked into the Earth, water rose into the atmosphere. Producing rain. It all just came back around. A sickening little cycle. Where was this sense in it all? Some natural calling that turned it into something purposeful? Why was blood so essential? Why so...desirable? It didn?t stay. Nothing did.
He had not been in the mindset he thrived in for long, no, something had changed within? his heart. There was something far more carnal flowing through his mind. Something more ravenous. It was all Maverick Tahir?s fault. He decided he was some arrogant force. Something that had a right to his sister? Foolish bastard. A low growl resonated in his throat before he collected himself. Why? Why was this something moving through his mind? Why did he hold such an endearing anger in his heart? Why had he allowed himself to fall so short? He could admit, while there was a part of him that told him no, that told him to rise above it. He was far too excited. Far too pleased by what was happening in his youthful mind. He was becoming stronger. He was becoming a man that would usurp his brother and reign over Valhalla.
Such a fresh, beautiful, night. If there was indeed something he put value in, it was the view of the world. Not the opinion. Not the drowning, failing, ideals of it, but the aesthetics. The elegant, regal design. Even he could not turn down the enhanced regality of it all. Even he could not look to the heavens and scowl upon the stars, no matter how much they looked at him with displeasure. Muscular thighs pressed against the Earth and the great Lord would rest himself before he fell into a state of oblivion. Introversion consuming him as silence befell the environment and he became a motionless hull.
Speech!