When she saw why she hadn't heard from her for two days, and that the door of the house she had insisted on for the third time was ajar, her doubt turned into fear, and fear turned into sadness. Looking at the lime-washed wall of the one-room house, he understood everything, no words needed. The defect in the writing on the wall seemed to describe how hard it was to endure the pain, whereas he wrote as carefully as a calligrapher.
How strange he thought, he was surprised by the mistake he made while giving advice to everyone, he did not understand why he was obsessed with the shape, the form, not understanding. Error was always by the side of man, and could be swept away with a smile, if not an evildoer.
The article was written with a sense of responsibility, a task that he had to complete before the Grim Reaper came and grew up. He had made many mistakes throughout his life, in fact, he always made mistakes. He did not blame anyone for these mistakes, he did not bow to anyone to correct them. Despite the deepest traces of his mistakes, the sardonic smile on his face towards life never ceased. He looked at the corpse, again with that distinctly sarcastic smile on his face.
If he had made a mistake again, this time it was his last mistake, but he did not blame anyone again. As he stared once more at the broken chalky wall, he could tell from the faded letters that he had hardly finished, like the difficulty of a pen that was close to running out.
God is not responsible for my death.
He wrote it in his own blood. He had seen the writing written in blood before, but it was a submissive, declaring writing that wanted to hold on to the flow of fate and to continue.
It was many years ago, he found it in front of the Caravanserai. The knee-deep yellow grass had engulfed the threshold of the imposing door of the caravanserai, showing the aggression of the enemy armies to enter.
The village guard had brought the wrong key, and he was inspecting the gate, the symbol of this magnificent resistance, and the stonework around it, with great admiration and pride. His magnificent horsemen would come out and drive out his "yellow" army.
Attack! it must be very painful that the claps cut.
How quickly the purity of the sayings "Come on, let's eat another sormuh candy" changes, modifiers must be as skilled as those who make this structure "in their work".
You say that good and evil come from God, and on top of that, where you have committed the evil that you cannot escape, you will be clean and pure by putting it on the devil that you have made up as a cover for your evil!
How will you look at the face of God, whom you attribute good to, and God, whom you attribute to evil? Aren't you ashamed at all!
He was startled when he said I brought the key from time travel. A squeak of sluggish strain could be heard from several attempts of the lock. The lock was finally unlocked, but this time, the insistence of that magnificent door not to move, as if his tired body was disturbed, suddenly took away all his heroic dreams.
Finally, that huge double-winged door opened on both sides, and the two-storey eye-to-eye rooms surrounding the square that looked like a vast battlefield in the middle. As if a hero would emerge from each of them.
He thought of the huge inlaid main entrance door, which he admired before the "wonderful" religious ritual in which dedicated children were thrown into the well as sacrifices at the Altar of Zeus. He had come this far from the first walking path in the world, where he walked half-dead with the barefoot villagers. What a mysterious walk it was, self-destructing, for soon it would be his turn to be thrown into the well.
Is magnificence reserved for the Gods, but made by human hands. Or is it neediness, O deceivers, what the thoughtful puppies tell.
Have you reached the highest? Or have you disappeared, leftovers of soup maker?
From where to where.
“God is not responsible for my death…”
Are they too far from each other?
A second corpse lay in front of the dripping copper garden faucet, right next to the tiny area where the mossy and green grasses of the ruined half-open courtyard were fighting.
It was Rod.
His thirteen-year life was ended by his owner. Apparently, he did not want Rodi to become a disgraceful ruse and malamat after him.
Are the two living things too far from each other?
They had walked together on the walk of life to death.
The narrow stone-paved walkway of the altar of Zeus came to his mind once again, did it matter what feelings and thoughts he was walking in, when the end was the same on this road. What if the bodies of the suffering, the souls whose expectations were not met, must have suffered so much.
All his cells were experiencing the whole atmosphere of pain, destiny, and the collapse of life. I could hear your feelings cracking in the thinnest part of my humanity.
He didn't even notice the two spoonfuls of sugar I purposely threw away to get away from the emotional storm, even though he drank it without sugar.
Her lips trembled in the short sighs that accompanied the two drops of tears hanging in her eye sockets.
Where were you when Giovenni needed you? I heard her whisper.
If I did not know, did not know, if I believed, I would have thought that he had gone to a previous life and was experiencing delusional narration.
“Who is Giovenni?” I asked softly.
“She's my grandfather she,” he replied quietly.
To my surprise when I asked if you were Italian?
My mother is German, my grandfather is Italian.
He couldn't say father again, despite all the pain he had been through.
They fled Mussolini, thinking they were being taken to Switzerland, but the place they came from was Berlin.
So they were caught in hail while escaping from the rain.
Exactly.
They met my mother there.
You don't have to tell?
I know, but I need Giovenni.
Was he wrong or we would soon find out.
