A mere image voiced in the opinions of the hungered saint known for his ability to cause emotional turbulence at the blink of an eye, the flash of his hand, his insensitive scent to find the next victim, paired, in the eyes of a wolf suited to fight a bear. A flicker of a light, causing a misjudged apparatus hanging in the ceiling. Still. Emotionless. Awaiting his life. Moral stability unstable as the clock ticks towards friendship and tocks towards mental mutilation. Its pathological mind paired with an overshadowed soul. Its mind is doubled. Its soul is no more. Its intrinistic bodily functions replaced with a single beat. What used to be its organs becomes an armamentarium of anger. Undecided. Its insides filled with such a nothingness that baffles its followers, a human mind, incomprehensible. A desire, incomprehensible. A book that explains to the reader its flaws, that attempts to teach but only murmurs. A slave to discovery, he belongs no more. He dwells near his lens. His tool is simply convex. His assistant the type writer. Criminalistic impediments push through to knowledge.

This, is about nothing.

I found its official name this morning, its called "Speculative Fiction"

Its more of a poem without structure, if you will.

This is honestly my first attempt at writing like this.

Do you like it?

And try to figure out what its about if you want =]