In my place

He was ready to trade the infinite countenances for a mask, a droplet tinged by wing of the black crow for his career, a vacuum corner for a morning sparrow, a rock for the jumping sunbeam, a deeper connotation of feel for dead derision time, living life for her than glittering glory of sparkling, a smile between time-space for everything under the sun.

A new antipathy is fleeting its nine month travel.

He is holding a bloody sword standing underneath a mammoth umbrella tree, alone. The sun is so heated up he fumbles and gets sightless, might amuse himself in Russian roulette.

Stick to the code!