I still sleep with books in my bed. It's somehow comforting knowing you wake up and the pages will be just as wasted as your dreams.
With every breath you get trapped in the monstrosity of the sea, how terribly sad as you will never know how to sail and the winds will never be enough. It's the same wickedness as of the one of the creature you shall never fully understand, yourself.
She wears black and has a terrible passion for poison. Of the musical sort. Not true yet not false. A bit too high pitch at moments and completely incomprehensible.
He cares not to listen. He assumed that just like the others she was a siren. She's terribly alone even when surrounded by people.
She listens to sounds that bother them and music is her air. Every shape and form...is music.
She allows herself to be trapped in the abyss of strangers...oh and then the solitude shapes into an even more solemn melancholy.
Dear Hilde, there's a bit of death in tonight's sunrise, and yet there is no shadow on that poor swan's wings.
My beloved without a name you strike me as remarkable, your laughter is in the air like dark circles. You're real just as much as you are myth, you are love just as much you are forgetfulness.
But then that is yet another story to be told, and tonight there's only time for tea, and doubts and this woman's crumb of life.
Gently forward and boundless...Sail away. The last miracle is upon those waves, and we shall not see them, yet we shall turn into waves ourselves...claiming salvation from the infinite. Two strangers mirroring their finitude in the darkness.
