I saw a poster, standing like a two-footed chicken, buried in it was the tableau of a flexing weak man, having his triceps like the scale of an ostrich’s feet and his eyes holding the light of the two arms of the pole throwing his weight around a silent strong man to scare his man.

What does the picture speaks? To a dead mind, it is a white robe, embalming a ghost, entering into the earth as its spouse. The voice of the immovable madman, generates an electricity which throws the whole city into outer darkness. He is a strong man, but weaker than a whisker.

Torn, torn, torn is his sword in pieces like sparkling dust ravaging its own brightness.

The bumps in his stomach are the swollen mirror full of deceit, showing him what he never is. Let’s show this picture his way to be erased off the banner from the face of the sky, and let’s tell him that all said about him are words that have sunk behind the flesh of the tree.

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