#soliloquiy

[shoot-of-corruption]

The day was slowly coming to an end. Albeit having been pretty much golden, it ended in a bit of a frosty attitude. The moment the sun started to vanish over the horizon, the cool night picked up and settled over Domino City like a thin jacket.

Finally having found a nice spot to rest at, he had the utmost joy in sipping one or two strong espressi and simply enjoyed watching the light dip out.

He had definitely missed this. Still feeling somewhat unreal and disconnected, every bit of him settled more, when he was able to experience this kind of spectacle. He couldn't wait for howling rain storms, harsh thundering in the sky and silent fields of thick fog.

Mariku just couldn't close his eyes or slip away again... he wasn't willing to confront what waited behind that sweet facade... somewhere where no mortal soul would follow...

He shivered down to his very core-

and knew that no drop in temperature, no matter how deep, could cause him this bone deep, all encompassing terror, he was trying to suppress with every ounce of his mind.

[akosichopaeng-blog-blog]

"To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there’s the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover’d country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.–Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember’d." William Shakespeare's "Hamlet"