On Monday morning, the bird looked into my soul, and gasped quietly. It was incredibly empty. I had never heard of such a sound, of this blast to my memory. Then the pain ate me whole, body and soul, and I left this sad existense to find a better life to exist in a whole new dimension of ice. So cold and numbing, I couldn't help myself but be paralyzed with fear, at the breaking point of my tortured sanity, of bloodsucking raisins. Afterwards, they all turned and walked with their backs against the sun, facing the uncertain future of their dying flames. Which made me question their motives. Yet at the day of mourning, a dark and threatening thunderhead, rising in the distant horizon; a deadly, a swarming cloud of death. The bird had arisen again and conquered the seemingly imminent destruction.