In the hands of fate we lay upon these thoughts...
Again and again the climatic memories unfold.
Time's last hope, love's last kiss
Have all since then perished.
Do you understand yourself?
Wait! But, what is to be left?..
What lies behind the crimson door.
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddalla day ago in Fiction
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