“My fists burn with the very vigor of my life, each blow a scream against the cold of nonexistence and inaction.”
1
1
42
“I do not envy gunmen. The paradise of firearm’s range is fleeting before the pandemonium that is reloading.
I do not reload my fists, not after the first strike and not after the hundredth.”
41
Sat upon a blanket in the middle of a busy open air market. His wares are trinkets carved by hands with no grace, his profits are humbler than he.
Still, he awaits a sale.
2
1
64
Walking from a local martial arts tournament with little more than a cheap tin medal and disappointment to show for it.
33

