It ...hurts, yes, it hurts very much

He is staring at the prayer-mat, staring-staring, opeth groans loud-loud metal, ambivalence: a mad-mad thing. Drawing circles on the pristine fabric, untouched for ages. Staring. Still. Blank.

'Break of the morning, coldness lingers on..'

'...Luring, you are luring me into the night...'

Uncertain, tracing infinity with his finger tips, turning-twisting the fabric. Agitated. Bleak.

'Slight twist, shivering corpse

Ornated with water, fills the cracks

Clasped in limbs by tradition,

This is all you need'

He leaves the mat -now, folding it a little at the top-right corner, as a gesture that he'll return-sooner or later-he will. Poisoning-soul. Stark-determination.

Recalling how he used to imitate his mother, the values she conferred, the very values he twisted -deformed-contorted, gave them away to the trash can, but they kept haunting him...