Although he was confident that the news of his death would not concern anyone, only his always hungry dog Harley, who always smelled the deep desires, and somehow encouraged him to commit suicide so that it would eat his butt.
How not… when no one has ever cared about his presence, so how about his absence?!
But he was determined to write a letter. A final letter.
And to throw it from his high window, where chaos and the wind will choose a fair destination for it.
He prepared everything…
His wooden table, which red wax and ink have engorged its edges, his poems hanging on the opposite wall, extinguishing any possible retreat within himself, and igniting the motives of departure.
A thick rope that is enough to avoid any sudden bad luck.
The curtain of the windows was removed, so that the sun would testify before God about the nobility of what he is about to do.
Then gently, he tied the rope around his neck as if he is dressing his girl with a jasmine collar and began to tighten it with hysterical force.
With a lightning movement he kicked the table and it flipped away from his feet.
To find himself thrown on the ground surrounded by the rubble of his fragile room that collapsed over his body,
his body, which was not greatly affected by the weight of the collapsed walls, was crushed when a piece of paper landed on him, it was his damned letter again, he grabbed it from the hand of the wind, and wrote on its other side:
“For a poet like me, only heaven can serve as a roof that can withstand all this overload of sadness in his depths.”
Since then, embracing the sky with his gaze, he wishes a tighter death for his soul.
– Harley, you damned hungry! Oh, our loss.
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