I know my way, I know the direction, I know the direction, a lone wolf that restrains the beast within. and in the darkness of the labyrinth, the beast in me awakens again. and bites the chains with which other beasts, people, hold him. stuck at the bottom in the mud of a new old sin, I act in front of people with a colorful mask of laughter, but they don't recognize colors and everything is black and white for them and all they see of me is just a passing body. I endure the looks of what stings, sharp towards the spines and I look at the claws and thumbs that turn downwards. back to the bottom. back to the depths of my healing incurable wounds at the expense of my truth. and the medicine is words, to them words, and I despise words. they do not contain my thoughts, I cannot speak to them, they are nothing but noise and the sound of the smoke itself. because what hurts is silence. my path is solitude, desert and wilderness. and I have nothing to do with them except my rhymes. I am not a hero or a warrior to be a part of this world. there is too much heel on me and incurable wounds in me. pain is my food. I'm just a rep. and in the flower of evil I see only the beauty of the flower. I hide from looks and words as sharp as knives. alone against packs and furious hunting chases. I cry from happiness and then scream in agony, led by fate and caressed by tender female hands. in me only beauty against all horrors. and besides, love before every God.