Today the demon struck again. The monster’s marionettes were not the source of the demons ire. Where in futile righteous justice the demon struck weak but true upon the brother bears solstice, upon bjørnene dag. At dawn today the demons nature was its ignition. Snarling, screaming, thrashing, lashing, roaring, ignoring the innocents calling, screaming fleeing sheared metal shrieking. The orange lamb though not struck in the demons rage, beheld its masters other face and loped from him in prey-like haste. The demons rage did not subside, the mother’s breath it could not abide. The fresh and furious winds of her around his cape did force unfurl. Where was his lamb? He could not say. In answer to plea, the lamb returned later that day. He saw the bear, he sulked alone. The raging demon upon dead throne.
The eyes outside the paper see the hand writing the words, where once there was silence, now many voices can be heard. The hand is not a monster only part of something bigger.
The eyes Linger.