Written on the wall like a sophisticated assertion. The plague of modernity caught in the sights of a fanatic upheaval. The strike begins at dusk and ends once the wick runs cold and ascends into heaven.
Orange peel floors mist a friendly welcome yet the smell of health hints at disease. The song of the sparrow is played and her cage becomes essential. The trap an asset.
Shackled beauty feigns the fearful.
Satisfaction; unescapable.
But what of love?
The sound of morning shakes the countryside as the native sun rises.
The sky's symphony informs the day so that the night may hold in her darkness
The day inevitably grows old, and the sparrow is freed from her cage.
True Love is.. Always slightly out of reach.
One would not have it any other way.
But what of love?
The sound of morning shakes the countryside as the native sun rises.
The sky's symphony informs the day so that the night may hold in her darkness
The day inevitably grows old, and the sparrow is freed from her cage.
True Love is.. Always slightly out of reach.
One would not have it any other way.
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