Monica B.´s Logbook from oPide 112 118 209 (kurti) - kind of an autobiographical-poetic diary. In the fiction the author Monica B. (B = Borboleta = butterfly) is in an unknown place in space, in a mega-city; but of the millions, no one else is alive except her. Typical for the narrator (as for me) is to feel as different people in different places at different times
The memory of walking along a street named „Incinerated Lips“ seeing a „SCHRADO“ striding down from a roof. Her lanky limbs, limp and white at the joints, drift and sway as she strides. She strides softly although there is scarcely anything good that´s looming.
Only one street ago I had witnessed the torso of a SCHRADO being dragged away, her head been hacked off, neck bleeding pulsingly. So the sight of the striding SCHRADO hurts.
Seeing a SCHRADO striding puts you strolling in the dense forest as all leaves suddenly fall from all the trees, changing their color while falling; light breaking in brutally.
Some say maliciously a SCHRADO is not worth much, fulfills purpose if nothing better at hand and if you know how to handle one. - SCHRADOS tolerate, endure and bear everything, though no striding appears from a SCHRADO in captivity.
Sadness never helps your knowing that SCHRADOS disappear completely when too many were caught away. Even if there had been the semblance of abundance before.
Neither is your sadness any help to the struggle of a SCHRADO, as her sole shield are her eyes; so big, so wet, filled with the white eyeball and the dark pupil; a mirror to the catcher! So some men, never daring to look in her eyes, creep up on SCHRADOS and kill them, never have seen their eyes, barely ever their striding.