On this cold and vibrant day, what could be said of love? This farce of emotions. This liquid imbalance.
Have I not told you my story? Have I not bled out in vain? My essence strewn about this table?
Does it not ebb the very heart of love? As it drips down the walls like an embryo, begging for
distinction from the rest of the masses?
Yes, I say. Yes. And precisely what could be said? What indeed?
I came to her, asunder. In time, reduced to ashes. For what is a submissive if not a shadow of her Mistress?
Through the end I held my silence. Through it all I kept my tongue.
What violence betroth me! This daughter of the Sun.
~ A. Sinclaire.
9:53 p.m. 04/25/2014
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