27.07.2025
At the risk of death, he packed everything of his strange self into the folded flower of paper. Neatly sealing everything in, neatly pressing down, neatly wincing when the paper cut into his thumb and finger, staining itself with his blood.
This paper rose, this unreal flower, he festooned it upon the wall of his house. The innermost was now on the outside. They came. They looked. They said that the paper flower was foul. They said that he, who had made the paper flower, that he was foul. They would have clawed his eyes out if they could and chopped at his fingers if they could.
The paper flower, hurt by the eyes and hurt by the words, it sighed in perfume. And the scent stung at the eyes of the haters. Their eyes watered and the tears fell. The tears were full of poison. They tore apart the paper flower.
And he? He was in the paper flower. They were tearing at him, clawing at him, ripping into him. He was unbuilt and uncreated, whittled down and scarred all over. Big gaping scars that screamed with oblivion. But he, he could not cry.
And so, they were happy.
diary of a lone man 