I whisper to the God of fulfillment. The parody of a prayer. In my heart, I want to mock at him and tell him how parochial his view of life is. The living is corrupt and derives no pleasure whatsoever. The dead is wrapped in the smug cigarette packs. The question and the God of fulfillment hang as they were since the beginning of existence- in the Garden of Eden or in the shell of an atom which blew apart and divided life or maybe between the legs of the cat vaulting, sneaking around the corner and cheating many men. The future is unresponsive as well.
I have not attained any elixir of satisfaction, so have not my enemies all around the world. This world, this tiny piece of screw has been moving harmonically in the wake of a day when the living can die in peace and the dead can sleep in calm. But inside even the Gods are hollow, the living is mere living. The divine are boneless cavities written in myths but millions get devoted to their crooked sense of life and false principles every day. Nymphs, out of their power are led into a deceitful circle, the periphery of which includes the gravest of lies told to simple people, to rip them of a golden living. An uncomplicated and satisfied living.
What answers could be found when the question stands hanged. The pleasure was all buried inwards, still is, but there are no diggers.