We're old swords, my
lovely— dogged, not
learning from the two
hundred years that our
city's been burning; we're
just ashes to ashes and
in between, yearning.
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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. Reddall5 days ago in Fiction
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