It was sixteen hundred hours when the big gun left the battlefield from a victorious Manic Monday. One of the peons then went to the big gun’s lair and found an oriel to, what he calls, another world. He made a visual examination at the scene rolling on the transparent gate. There he saw people walking in a diversified manner. Some in slow motion, some in the opposite; some with companions, some alone; some talking, some with lips zipped; and some laughing, some with faces carrying the black beast of the universe. The latter is what evoked his racking control center. He recollected the pictures of what took place earlier, and he was taken aback that the black beast is the very tableau of the struggles he has to endure to create a fecund day five years ago.
The poor peon was inundated with regrets while mincing that fine-drawn day. He averted his optical organs from that ferry and walked towards the table where his satchel lies. He reached for the square papers and made a long, fixed stare at it while taking the red pill to transport him to another microcosm. This time, there’s no weight of a black beast on the face nor pangs of regret being displayed therein…only a cathedra waiting and willing to osculate his arse.
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