He had always expected something around the corner. Something that his fantasies and imagination drew for him to ponder. What would he come across the next corner?

And then around one of them, the innocent corners, he found life. He was overjoyed, but soon the joy faded in intriguing miserable confusion. Where was he? Was he confronting life, indeed?

As he watched jaw-dropped, the apparition drew a sickle, and it was red. But not with rust. The next moment he found himself incapacitated, his arm twisted, his joie de vivre muffled, and life swiped the sickle. His throat sprinkled the last justifications, but he could not explain. He could not explain to himself why life was so unjust.

Something that had been always so incomprehensible—the pain, the agony, the politics, the you-have-to-do-this-for-no-reason-whatsoever, the you-have-to-explain-your-moves gagged him.

"Why do I have to be like everyone in the herd? Why can I not prowl alone?"

His quest continues...