The sprawling campus stares at him; the sight trapped between the pendulum of his corona and the glass of his building. Cool breeze dies hitting the colder wall. The vastness engulfs him and suddenly he realizes how minute he is. The whole universe is looking at him as if he has been brought to this stage to be laughed upon. He can see his own reflection making a mockery of him.
The puppeteer has broken the threads but what is left is something non-existing instead of freedom what he has been yearning for. What is he without those threads when the lifeline of a puppet is the blood flowing through the veins of those fingers. And how hard it is to know that those fingers aren’t your extensions.
Is this soothing quiet or sooting lull that stands here ?