the winter is naught but a mere song, a distant serenade; the haunting lullaby, fleeting, mellow, delicate in its liquidity and yet thunderous in its echoes
the night is naught but a cloak, opague and encompassing, a secret sanctuary; a gentle fabric of the hermit, the haven for the leper, frightening in its infinity and yet comforting in its nothingness
reality is naught but the dreaming of the senses, a subconscious indulgence; its is but the plume of smoke melting into the horizon, the flock of birds dissolving into the approaching dusk; a nexus of hope and promise, but never like the two
you are naught but a cheebye lanjiao, nehnehpokhair like grass, cheebyeskin like bah kua; piguhole like golfhole.
HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAH i am mad
| Thoughts Became Words At 11:34 PM |
