The ancient of days was ne'er made for me, yet ever I crave its wondrous peace...
I'll gather them all in a crumpled pile and watch as they writhe and convulse beneath the flame. Suddenly, they are gone. It's tragic that I can't do the same.
"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent." -Victor Hugo
A little bit of this, a little bit of that
- Verse Seventeen -
WORDS TO AMUSE YOU
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