He raged against the dying light, only to find it was merely a cloud. That got him angry, which was the baseline state of his existence; heading there was as often calming down as it was the opposite. A passerby noticed and asked if everything was okay; the answer was physical and definitive.

‘And now you are bleeding on my hand!’

The scream, building up to it’s impressive crechendo, was even more unnerving than having your caring enquiry end in a bloody nose, and the passerby fled. As he did so, our protagonist could only fume, which, as it turns out, was as good as it gets.


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