The old man writes, he explains us the world, but interwoven in his beard whispers truth. Numbers and figuresslowly creep from past shadows. The doctor will catch them and build a new heart. He hears the voices observing the trees and fields and flowers. A translation of thoughts flows through a nature created by itself. And by that river I sit, searching for accents, for elves, for moons, for Pans in my forest soul. Have they already vanished? Eaten by the old man? Taken to sleep an eternal dream?They disappeared like a childish nightmare fear. No wizards to save us, no bravery to fight for us, no yellow brick road to guide us all home. No strength to fight for what we want and need. I turn to the riverbank again. No flowers,no trees, no fields to lay your soul on. The lava’s beast melted it away. Like a fluid book my blood runs dry. Single letters drop on the floor. They are erasing my pages. Now left, only smithereens of my organs. Decompose it until  you know what’s inside. I will break you eliminate you before you rise. Parasite of my body. Emotion.