The padawan struggled to reach its friend. A dark shadow fell across it. Striking at the opportunate second, pathetically nescient of the cosmoballistic butterfly wings of fate that would be rippled by his uncontrolled ignorant lust, he struck. He struck again.
Another chanced to be in the midst of yon neighbouring street. He glanced. He saw. He stared. He pounced into the eyes, and eyes and eyes, they met.
He was hit. Hit with a stare. A bullet. He was hit.
He looked away, and then, he looked again. Head straight, eyes wide, lethally narrow. Cold hatred flowing. Hate, post forgivance, darting. The white and dark brown, raging with cold agonate force.
He was hit again. With a bullet. His hand had started to raise a third, but it never reached its most potential state. It crumbled. Whilst his mind, it caught fire. He was in agony. He was dying. No. He was realising. The nescience, the ignorance, burnt off by the bullets. The looks.
He looked forward, and walked on. His immediate vices in his selfish thoughts.
He stood there, frozen in time. And to him, he shall always stand there. As a memory. A memory of what can be done, to undo what could be done that had been done.
The padawan frolicked away, unknowing of the butterfly wings. Oh dear child, oh love, it’ll hit you. Some day, some place. And I hope you have the courage, the love, and the faith.
He climbed the stairs. Used the key. Sat down. And started typing.
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