The hurt on my knuckle doesn’t seem to surpass my heart pain. It trembles in red, not as bright as the lighted cigarette, but swollen enough to halt movement. A sportsman with injuries is deem as worthless. Since years ago, nothing ever stimulated self destruction anymore when maturity took over. Now that every bit of calmness has dispersed; in sorrow, in disappointment, I conclude defeat. What’s worst is the joke that nobody knows or believes.