To be a savage.

He totally lost his water.

A peaceful night in the country?

And even the wild spiral keys in the vanishing point, directly below it.

We can only be savages in as much as we keep serious.

People do crazy shit when they get fired.

The snowstorm raged for a full week.

So you'd be more likely to come storming in here and throw me to the wolves.

Yet repose seems unlikely beneath that angry sky,

Samuel Pisar, an Auschwitz survivor, said, and I'll quote him,

We let loose against them a violent roaring wind on a day of ill omen, continuous,

We indeed sent towards them a severe windstorm, on a day the ill luck of which lasted upon them forever.

We loosed against them a wind clamorous in a day of ill fortune continuous,

Verily We! We sent against them a raging Wind On a day of calamity continuous.

Verily, We sent against them a furious wind of harsh voice on a day of evil omen and continuous calamity.

We unleashed upon them a screaming wind, on a day of unrelenting misery.

We sent a tumultuous wind against them on a day of unremitting misfortune,

Lo! We let loose on them a raging wind on a day of constant calamity,

Indeed We unleashed upon them an icy gale on an incessantly ill fated day,

And We sent against them a howling wind in a Day of continuous of ill fortune

Indeed, We sent upon them a screaming wind on a day of continuous misfortune,

On an unfortunate day We sent upon them a continuous violent wind

Surely We sent on them a tornado in a day of bitter ill luck

We sent a raging wind against them on a day of continuous calamity.

For We sent against them a furious wind, on a Day of violent Disaster,

Madman!

Weirdo. kook. nut.

A maniac.

Like an insane man with a razor in his hand.

Three sickos attacked her.

You know what you're looking at?

In other words, a lunatic.

That madman.

I mean, peoples' brains start swelling up, leaking out of their ears.

This is crazy.

So it'll either do nothing or it'll actually kill the organisms most of the time.

The turbulent sands above our heads, the flinging of our swords... they're naught but falling stars in the night sky.

That would get him out of my hair for good!

Madman. You're a madman.

Crackpot.

You sound crazy.

The poet went mad in the end.

Being a guest here is hard work.

If sanity rules the composition, surely madness powers the turbulent brushwork?

Into the wild.