it would be a childish folly to believe she lied in every word. or to think that such desolation were but a horrific affect left behind by her sullied raiment, smeared across your landscape like black oil. that which was once verdant and inviting now seared and palsied in her passing is not an artifact of her breath. all is not a ruin wrought by her design. no, it is not such foul things, pitiable fool. it was all a gift. it was all a mere revelation of everything you already were. and what you fail to recognize, in your contemptible lament and blame, is that your tower - it still stands. happy birthday, my anathema
Posted on: Mon, 07 Apr 2014 04:01:38 +0000
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