when the music's over...

Mr. X hopes to be a word man in the residual part of his life. He desires to scream as in Edward Munch’s drawing, he wants to lament for once, or for the eternity to be finished in the next reel.

No point in brood over for a phone call, or not a phone call. Both are deceitful happily in a ground zero status quo. No point in exchanging any words, a kite, or a gift of wings.

The flames are all long gone.

But the pain lingers on……

Mr. X is breaking the habits tonight; he might convince himself in learning the sacred language of birds.