And she weeps at my existance, when it's a mere mixture of denial and expectancy. A chaos she so longed for. Chaos she dearly loved, bethroted her beloved and perished her to dust. In glimmering shame she awoke, so suddenly proven. Alive and unforsaketh. She was in love. Such was her condition as played by the game of chaos. They stand together still free. Shame on love of lust played by the game of chaos. Chaos blewth all but the lust of love. The butterfly of lust perished oh dearly. So easily.
Number 23. It's not purple it's pink.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
