trīgintā
"Who are you?"
He was more than sure that he didn't address that to any of the humans who were present there. There was no human there of course.
He didn't know who was responsible for his fall. He did want to figure out of course. He wanted to know what he did which had prompted such evil.
He didn't know. He didn't know what the person wanted from him. He probably did have an idea but kept lying to himself.
He didn't know what to put up with. He knew that he would still figure out how things would work. He knew about that.
He knew that he would still figure out who was there, but he needed to be sure. He didn't just want to arrive at a conclusion.
That was quite easy for everyone to do. He did know what would inspire the odds and the pain which were ascribed to it.
He was hoping that time would fill the urge and he would be sane for the snappy comeback.
He did know what time was made of and was trying as much as a possible to stay positive.
That was the best give he could ever give himself. He needed no soothsayer to say that to him.
He tried standing. He didn't know how to figure it out. He had fallen on his back. He hadn't done anything.
He had only being pushed by a force. He didn't know if that was true. He didn't know if he was afraid or something close to that.
He didn't know if he had been afraid. He didn't know what feeling was real or was not.
He was trying to remember if truly he had heard a voice before he did fall. He knew what that was all he wanted to figure out.
He knew what time was capable of doing. He was trying to fill the vacuum his rage had dug.
He knew that he would of course achieve nothing with his rage. He would only complicate the issue.
He didn't want to do that. He needed to foil some odds. He needed to fuel some pains and make sense of his own rage.
That was all he needed at that time. And he was trying as much as possible to figure it out.
He was hoping that that would help him. He didn't know how true that was. He was only hoping.
He knew of what substance hope was made and what effect it did have on humans.
He didn't know if he would call the feeling a bile or some crazed velocity inspired by rage or time.
He didn't know what quota of his rage he was supposed to ascribe or contribute in putting up with the odds of the new feelings.
He did know what hope could make of him. He didn't know if he was truly ready for it. He didn't know what he was ready for any more.
He was just being a specimen. That was the only name he did think appropriate for himself. He had no idea why he would had thought of himself in such manner.
He didn't want to make it to sound so offensive. His instinct might be biled or displeased. He didn't want to feed it a hate which would turn would into a sore in his mental ken.
He was only being conscious of what he was doing. That was all that he could do. That was all that he could put up with.
He knew what he wanted and how he would go for it. He knew that hope was not one of the things he did want.
He started sieving his options. How about if he did stand up and then saw someone behind him.
What would he do? What rage would he spoil? How would he chop ire and make the smithereens into some bullets he could hurl at whoever it would be.
He did know that the only person who was bound to be there was Poseidon. He knew of course because they were the only two who had entered the hall.
He hadn't taken note of any other person arrive and of course he wasn't ready for that. He didn't know what he would do.
Most times when he was caught in the claws of this kinda indecision, he always made his rage puke. He would only figure out for a while and then propel.
He would lauch the RPG of his ire and then see what twould make of the pain and and instinct of whoever twas aimed at.
He was being objective and that was the only that which could assist. He hoped that that would.
He didn't want to hope. He knew what hope was capable of doing. He would fix it.
He felt a sense of pleasure within his bowel. He didn't know what that was owed to. He tried to figure out. He didn't know what odd that was.
Most times he didn't want to figure out what was wrong and what was not. He just wanted to make his rage known.
Sometimes he would tuck his rage and did act as though he wasn't aware of anything. Sometimes he would act as though he would never be aware of anything.
Time was sieving the stance. Time was helping him to get through. He was hoping that that would be the best achievement he would ever think of.
He wanted to relate with the pleasure but he couldn't register what note twas fiddling with in his consciousness.
He was just hoping that time would serve the good turn. He was hoping that time would have the best way.
He did know what he wanted and and gone for it. He was only sieving his options at that moment and of course everyone would do that.
He could say that over and over again. He quit what pleasure would give and did register his rage. Time was making no sense to him that.
He would resolve for another natural element. He was sure that the bowel and pored pleasure would make themselves know soonest. Of course he knew that they were untutored.
He stood his ground. He didn't care what was at his back. He didn't care who was at his back.
He was only hoping that time would fiddle with the whole deal. He knew what that was and what he could do with it.
He was only trying to figure out how the thing would work. He knew nothing about the recent innovations. He hadn't been held at such point ever.
He knew that sooner or later he would figure out what he was supposed to do. He knew what he wanted of course.
He knew what he wanted to do of course. As he did stand, he ignored the feeling that had been gnawing. He would feed them soonest.
He wasn't in for such odds in the first place. He would take his time to figure things out and have his way.
That should help him of course. He could keep saying that over and over again. That would prune the odds. That was all that he could do.
He walked towards the pot again. He didn't know why he was being obstinate.
He had been pushed or tapped into doom by some force because of it and he was going to get on it? How illogical and dimwitted he could be.
He didn't mind the warning his instinct was lending. He didn't want to use it. He would try as much as possible to figure it out.
He would try as much as possible to make meaning of it. He knew that he was stanced and stoic and undaunted.
He knew that he would get whatever he did want if he put his heart to it. He was conscious of how he walked towards.
Probably he didn't walk in the right direction. Probably he had taken the wrong route and was owing it to his rage to soil their wails.
He couldn't be so sure. He would figure out soonest of course. He would make his rage known of could. He changed the way he did walk.
He did it stealthily. No! He did it confidently at that time. That was the best thing he could do.
He would figure out the remaining thing. He knew he would but trying to sure if he was sure.
He got to the pot. The fire was yet in the prime of its rage. He didn't know what alakazam or spell was that. He wouldn't be distracted.
He knew exactly what he did want and would go for it. He wasn't skeptical, he was hoping that things would turn out well.
That was the only thing he was hoping. If he did hope, time would feed him more. And he was more than open to it.
He was open to the odd. He was only being skeptical. He put his hand into the pot and tried to take a cut of meat. His hand in the cauldron was warm.
The cauldron should had scorched, but hmmm hmmm, twas warm. He knew that something was not right but he didn't want to be negative of course.
He allowed his rage feel the odds, then he did have a hold of what looked like meat. He wanted to be sure if he had held a piece of meat truly and poked his head.
Boom! He went flying in the air like a balloon and hit his head again a clay formation at fall.
He would be wiser the next time. He hoped that he would. Then he heard a voice. Same and same voice. He was done hearing voices.