She marches to the beat of a different drum...
She marches to the beat of a different drum...
Passion be witness to the tidings of fortune. Soon I will be here no more. You shall hear my tale through my blood. My people, they shall tell my tale, not I. Following the trail of tears...
Dreams of the fatherland, dashed to the ground, pummled underfoot. How could one such as you, go so wrong. Morals so corrupt. Beauty is only fine if there is lack of it. For, in a world of supernatural beauty, any one normal is ugly.
And, anyone special is feared.
For we drink the blood of our ancesters, and feed off of our young. The human sin.
Arvice, the spirit of greed, the one who cannot cantain herself. She sins, for she, and she alone knows that beauty comes only from what we cannot have.
Immortal angst... Mortal frutality.
We are all cursed, for we are all flawed.
 Persuis · Wed Oct 18, 2006 @ 04:24am · 1 Comments |
