For self-definition, yet always we despair.

Pin a butterfly and master hurricanes.

Resplendent agony, the mad god consumes.

Our self-defining years are few.

i am a lover of beautiful things, like the tower at dawn and the old wooden swings; and the red in your hair just before you had gone; and the music at midnight we heard from the stair; and the calm, cool breeze as it swallowed our flight and the silvery sound as it starts; and the secrets we traded for keys to the promise we made in our hearts.

i am a lover of beautiful things, like the tower at dawn and the old the wooden swings; and the red in your hair just before you had gone; and the music at midnight we heard from the stair; and the calm, cool breeze as it swallowed our flight and the silvery sound as it starts; and the secrets we traded for keys to the promise we made in our hearts.

i am a lover of beautiful things, like the tower at dawn and the old the wooden swings; and the red in your hair just before you had gone; and the music at midnight we heard from the stair; and the calm, cool breeze as it swallowed our fight and the silvery sound as it starts; and the secrets we traded for keys to the promise we made in our hearts.

The angel is on a dais in the center of the room, and it doesn't matter what angle you look at it from because it is always facing you. You can't tell how many faces it has, or which mouth it's using to eat the apple it holds in one smooth, white hand that you have good reason to believe is every bit as alabaster-hard as it looks, veined like marble here and there with reds that are both dusky and vibrant. It has a shapeless, sexless body and it doesn't speak yet; you've only just entered the...

'we never want the things we know are free', she says, and turns away her eyes; and sighs; and closes thick the door and turns away. she's always cutting off at things like that - it feels as though you've known her all your life. 'like a beautiful song with a terrible ending,' you're closing your eyes at the sound of it, still in your veins; and she brakes, but it's subtle. she says that we spoil ourselves for the rest of the world's sweet music. you want to say that all is well - that after...