A thunderstorm violently invading the land—I can see it in the distance. It's a bit far away, but it feels as close to me as my heartbeats.

 Is there rain coming? 'Whatcha looking at, you N? Do your thing. Are you a poet today? Daydreaming? You worthless piece of sh.'

 I heard the wrinkles that a whiplash made in the air. I imagined the visual, like a vengeful venomous snake, aiming and ready to strike. It must be up in the air now, and any moment it must strike me. I've lost count today, like every other day, but I know I am not someone who will know pain anymore. Every inch of my body has grown up with pain, like it's my soul's companion—married to pain since childhood. The pain of the whiplashes, pain of torture, pain of imprisonment—it's just a bearable companion now. It's only the noises that are annoying, the unrelenting, uncreative, dull, monotonous noises. And you say I'm not a poet? You dull human, you know nothing but controlling, you know nothing but torturing, and yet you talk about poetry. You don't know what love is, yet you talk about words. 

I pity your loveless heart, your loveless luxury, your empty conscience. An empty conscience... I wonder what it's like to live like that. Will he ever know love? Will he ever give love? What kind of life could that be, I wonder."