STIGMATA - Political Musings of Unrequited Love by Ruxandra Duca - HTML preview

We fail

There’s smoke at the top of that building.

I think somebody’s dying in there.

It’s people.

A person.

A creature.

Humanity.

What price should one pay

to salvage salvation?

There’s smoke coming out of my eyes.

I think there’s somebody dying in here.

Don’t look, now...

Turn away and wonder...

‘why do people die?’

Why do people live?

I have a compass, and I’m pointing it up;

I call this ‘the fifth cardinal point’

but it requires pointing down.

It puzzles me to notice the smoke coming out of that building.

Nobody died there.

I am no-body.

We have equated failure with the soul.

We fail.