Maximum of His Fear

He fears, as always. He never does things right. No, you would expect him no more. This time he seemed to realize what he could or couldn't do without the help of every single thing which clinched him. He fell into such certain rule and founded nothing to which he belonged, and he should have resented himself for what he had done and had felt pathetic for what he was incapable of. Something knotty and even unspeakable drenched in his every vein as if being told to make them clear and even dry them up. That was when he felt no certain at all for everything that's not to be told. He turned himself away, as he always did. If finding himself was long miles to go, he would have just let some of them go and cared no more. Now, he somehow has felt this sort of way, and yes, no one would praise him for sure since he always let others down, even for his dearest. "What could be proper anyway?" He again asked himself the very common question and again he still found nothing out at present. He rather lost himself and then fell before every moment and experience had happened on the circumstance of preparing himself for being torn into pieces scattering the lands and soaks his flesh in the forest mold, waiting for being dug out by several hounds around. But sometimes his flesh in pieces may be overlooked by the hounds because those hounds will never discover that the leaves and the branches gradually mingle with his flesh as camouflage. The dead person as he is being recognized, he may be that one but still exists without any notice. What he fears stays with fearless. The mecca he'd ever found while he seems to experience all the ways he is capable of, a sort of everywhere in his senses that each piece of his flesh is zigzagging, transforming and twitching at the tiny moment as he may feel such a tiny moment as much as he can and ultimately realizes where the mecca is located. Meanwhile, he saves his energy further for fear melting temporarily.