Manley
Manley lives in a disarrayed ton of routines; he goes about wavering applauses to the same sect that thrusted him. Where do we go when we die? A question that reigns in his mind with no certainty of getting a quick reply. However, he works with a revelated transiency of life. Like flipped pages lying like the horse in that green towel, he shunned away the closure of the solitude breeze and attempted to put on a paragon of metaphors. Living life is never a satisfied one, rather, a pile of thorns, with a distance hatred towards sustaining clinched expectations. Why do we live like this here? Manley with his pours of questions about existing would never halt his quests. His life is like a train that only breathes in a track, only, extolling the normalized life cycle, of how-to breath, of how to do and get this at a particular time, of presented responsibilities, even when to pass away. He becomes a victim of passing days created from the carcass of yesterday's choice. Apparently,