The wind bristles through the softness of her eyelashes.
Is it life that inspires imagination, or imagination that inspires life?
The uncommons were at fault for the many times they told fallace stories of redemption.
As if white transferred to color, her desire rose again.
Their hands melted into one and other.
Death come to the one who declares that energy does not flow lavishly.
Senses heightened and falling embraces, for a moment, their dance seemed suitable.
The darkness of night bared witness to their ritual, and their burdensome mania would bring them to certain demise.
I know it may sound weird but I think this is one of your best writings. It’s when you write like this that makes me most ashamed of my own writing. It would take me way too long to explain the greatness of each line but you were the one who wrote it so I’m sure you’re at least somewhat aware of the magnitude of each line. I can tell you in complete honesty that there is not a word I would change about this piece. It’s a beautiful piece. A far too beautiful piece.