today i want killing to mean living.
prompt.
there is nothing that blooms in the blighted boulevard of his throat, but a silent scathing question of the very nature of Gilgamesh’s words. The blond speaks as though the pith of killing is left barren; unmarred and untouched by the ravenous roots that surge from the raw yen to live to feel one’s skin sear beneath the golden rays of the midsummer’s sun; to taste the sweet, sweet gore of exhilaration upon the rancid rot of their tongues; to behold, in all of its glory, the timeless beauty of the gargantuan greenwood and the azure seas that are capable of bringing millions after millions after millions of men to their knees. Surely, Gilgamesh knows this : killing breeds the selfsame fervour that living births. To kill and to live ... Are they truly independent of the other ?
‘ hm. does it already not ? ’
