1 1) An interesting notion, in it's own way . . .

Nature. Myriad are it's sounds and forms of life. Today's special was a nice, cool breeze, with softly chirping birds, and children laughing. Such a magical thing, a child's laughter. Still pure, untainted, but not without its thoughts. Also blowing on the wind was the scent of a nearby pine tree, faint, but rich enough to carry on the eventide breeze. Almost as if... as if the world itself was willing calmness and peace of mind unto the chaos of this tumultuous and heavy existence of ours.

But, sadly, it did nothing for the fury, rage and Wrath beating in the heart of our hero. If only he thought of himself as such, maybe something would change for the better... his self-esteem, perhaps. But unfortunately, the world is not as kind as might seem on the surface. He knows all too well what dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty truly lie in the all too dark hearts of human man. Especially so familiar, was he with them, that he had suffered greatly at such hands and hearts in his earliest days. Thankfully he had no such direct memories of the trauma, but being informed of it and having high intelligence, imagination quickly filled in the rest. And what wasn't filled, was guessed or assumed. And even the best case scenario, though little was left to the imagination, was still exceptionally abhorrent.

He sighed heavily, leaning further back in his deep dish reclining chair, thinking about what might have been, what could have happened, and what he should have done. But nothing helped. Not anymore. As he fought back the Red Mist, the terrible, constant and inevitable Black Tide soon threatened to take it's place. He carefully measured, then made the appropriate adjustment. He took in a quick, but meaningful lung of air, and let it out, trying once again to just let go.

He met with little success. "Fuck it." he mumbled quietly, attempting to change the subject. He moved on to other thoughts, such as what to eat, how long to sleep, and just how long he should "Keep fucking thinking about this shit, god fuckmothering dammit!" he thought fiercely, a stern expression appearing on his usually stone face. "Fine..." he thought resignedly, "at least let me finish my thought."

He often thought that all of his thinking must seem like so much ruminating and pontificating in his head, like an old man who never really shuts up, but is still rather sage, and offers swell advice when the time comes. But, in reality, he just looked pissed. Constantly. Resting Bitch Face is a very serious and potentially deadly disease, with often fatal results... for a social life... which he did not have... or ever had. "Yeah, ya know what, I'm good, thanks." he thought, knowing that such interactions were beyond his ken, as his energy could only last so long.

"But then again... a social me..." he thought idly, "Might be pretty nice. I'd just need the energy. And I even know how to get it...". He proceeded to crack an exceedingly rare grin, and took solace in the momentary flush of happiness.

But, as quick as it came, it went.

"Although... ", he thought as he moved to settle into bed, "I do have to say, that that is, in fact... an interesting notion, in it's own way . . ." He curled slightly to the right and scrunched around till he was comfy. He inhaled his own sweet, soft, milky scent which had leaked into the pillow over the years, thinking "yeah. maybe. in and of it's own way, shape and form...".

And that, alongside the thoughts of just how much lavish loving attention he would inundate on his precious future wife, he drifted off, into the sweetest and softest of Oblivions, only to forget the wondrous things contained within by the time he woke. He sighed, softly, one last time, as he let go, temporarily putting aside all his fury and rage, in exchange for the restorative slumber that came with sleep.

●●●