Oriental short stories.
a boxer with a broken face strained through his lips blood and growled - My fists are my bread! -
the karateka looked into the distance in front of him and whispered - My zanshin is my bread! -
the musician pricked up his ears and said -
My notes is my bread! -
I thought -
My bread is a words, I bake my own, it is homemade and smells of thee,
when the signal sounds, I add the spice of memories and
I'm adding him right now, You're amazing, You're an endless oriental story!
Karta Crowleyho Tarotu je... Devět Pohárů, ,,Radost."
Až na kost!