One story fades, another begins, another stop, crashing among themselves like bodies juggled by a river's currents with that sound so similar of thunder. And so just as imperceptible as the reason of life, or love and hate, so those stories ceased to be alone, until they all come together in one great book where the ink fades, spill and dry.
Time ceased to be a river and became a stagnant pool. The past and the future bled into a singular, suffocating present, until the world was reduced to the space between the edge of his blade and the throat of the next man. The mountains of corpses he had left in his wake fluttered away like ash; his fears, his ambitions, even his name, melted into the slurry never to be seen until they would float back once more.
But not now.Too long and too hard it had all been.
He was not a man, they were not men either , just accessory of that hell, deemed to dance until death came down reaching for its accursed.
