Every book should cut; scraping the delicate skin of the child reader, blood drops taint our mind space.
forming red cells called memories. perhaps it's the burn and the throbbing sense of loss which makes us fanatics of this strange fencing called reading they say reading is sexy if so this forwarder must be making at least ten advances per day. Alas, he has no one to talk with, he is dead as a river in winter, live and hotter as a volcano, playful as the wind, still as a tree loud as thunder, silent as fog, no one has understood him like you did, he is a baby brother to you, he wants you to just look at the strange things that he makes with words; They're not Grown-up poetry.it is a child messing with language.[Misspelled, irregular, naive, repetitive
: The child is happy when you respond to him, otherwise, he sits in his place, clasping his ears tight and breathing silently as the teacher takes her class she didn't understand him or his handwriting. He was always obedient so she didn't Discipline him enough now years later he has locked himself away in a castle, Like in that story where a beast awaits a beauty. He is distributed by even the slightest noise, movement. As his parents cling and clang aloud, he wished that one night a snake would strangle him so that he can meet his beauty unnoticed, by her neighbourhood. He befriended ghosts, vampires whom he hated before because humans don't listen now he hath decided to meet you as his spirit wonders amongst the clouds with his vampire sister Bhadra.
They are on the way
