I knew of men who press fire with bare hands and not notice the burn.
But then again feeling the pain could have been the only way to be human again.
Bereft of ideas and a beating heart they roam around the wilderness,
seeking plains to scream their hearts out, bring it back to life.
These ain’t men from the ages of dark magic and depravity, but of science and modernity. Not of boats and rafts but of school’s and universities.
These are men of my time.
For decades they crept and crawled under the basements of war and pillage, finally, when they came out they had nothing but a bloody pond of regrets to drink from.
Their sacrifices vain, lives aimless, arms jobless and hearts soulless.
In the darkness they would feel trapped in the basement again, clawing the free air with nails tainted with memories.
In institutions they trusted, fools of the remnant past forged the future in their shadow. The millions who inherited the curse still roam the jungles seeking plains.
These are men of my time.
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