THE CHRISTMAS SHEEP THAT BIRTH A STAR THE MOON 2021 F, Prologue. Mutilated by his Maker

Autor : Const Felix
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Prologue. Mutilated by his Maker
Mantuire, mantuire (maiastra word) : Home was Hell!

For this child, Felix, home was hell! He was just fourteen, not even that, a good boy, almost a man thinking from young & tender because of distresses and family sorrow, a faithful spirit in the churches of old, like Tess a descendand of valorous warriors and knights, giants that shaped the mountains around the land reduced to humbleness by the gods they fought with for golden eras one after another, merciful, ruth spirits though like his Mother Valeria and her Mother Ana bedefore her that was buried just today, on t fourth of october, this Christmas, just with pride he had troubles like any peasant devil innocent soul, he just didn’t knew why home was hell, after the mountain was razored by human history and just prayed to survive like men bereft in an unit, before or now, somewhere around Syberia, reciting his indoeuropean mantra like Heinrich Zimmer: Mantuire, mantuire to the tarot icons in the Perestroika glasnosti of his innermuse in the Orthodox Church of the Winter Miracle in one of the Warszaw Pact Socialist States Countries two years in the age of the Cernobal, the 1688s; they at the 20th apartment of the P28 building second floor, were a sad – fam. ROMAN GHEORGHIOS. As of his own consumption and let be, exist, child-Felix, lest alone other men agenda, in rest, whenever since conception he was let alone, in peace as the Romanian say, was of good times, even comforts, praying, dreaming or bearing his religious vocation like the old Pope or Monarchs, priests & friars, and it was his religion that fixed him in this pitiful state forever lest God not change his heart toward him, and Felix knew even from infancy God is ambiguous, worthwaiting for macro though like a sleepy bread-cart. He was a Christian, of the bloodbook, there was nothing else to pray for, his Faith, first Guardian. Years after, when he died, the priest that buried him uttered these words: ‘This almost man, Roman Felix, a Sofer, remained a child because he never was let live by his, he was always, perpetual a good earth and a causeway for the brothers by, the passers by, the brothers bye!... Now we give him to the Earth that can never receive him, because She never gave him. If he was ever crazy he was so for his endless, permanent experience of a lifelong small, mean childhood of Felixchildbeatencrazy for nothing, the prize of a landlord parent & faraday peers, not by his own accord, pain destroyed his Mutilated by his Maker psyche as vice the souls of his beat fam, damned and letalone by normal citizens & authority seats, for decades, centuries & for ever forever, amen... But he got a Nobel, for She was worthy. A good, dead, Faithful, an approacher, a neighbour, o, this Huge Technics Schyzophrenia Mann-labeled Christendom!... His Mother lovd him too much. It is writ on him in childhood hagiography once he askt his older brother to draw him a upright lion on a white sheet and his flag was an ocre lion on white square in mama's window that day. Just like a big amber eyes biblical beast pious beat unloved unforgave dog of the house, he loved, beart, forgiven, endured, tried, preached, read, prophesied, prayed, sorrowed, hoped, believed, loved – just to keep his life, if life might kept, - hungered, beaten & alone like a monklamb of times old, the slave of his own, & more, amen!...’’

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