[Bedtime]
I think today is the day I die. So the son of Henry the Eighth will never grow up, yet I'm happy to die, already tiring so old with this Crown too heavy. I'm fifteen already neither speaking like a child nor thinking like a child not me: I can write and discourse in five languages am awfully good in maths and an expert in political economics. They say that I am Sick, but I fear that I am olding already hair falling skin peeling vomitting phlegm and Blood:
Sister, is this Poison?
[Bloody Mary tends well to matters.]
About the Creator
Rob Angeli
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt
There are tears of things, and mortal objects touch the mind.
-Virgil Aeneid I.462
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