zeffie

It plays on. The song of the music box with broken gears. It plays on in the heart of every person like me; it's eternal. A song of the loss of faith, the loss of joy, the loss of innocense. A song of emptiness. It is a song that lures razorblades to veins like ships to siren. Consumption. I am the song, and the song is me. We. For awhile I thought I had found a new song. A song, that though equally consuming, did not bring with it the pain. Or perhaps the pain was still there and this new song was healing, working with all it's might to fix everything wrong with me. A prelude composed of the great measures that were to come: that I will

[i]"Good-bye,"The man murmurs. "You will forever be in my heart."[/i] Poison ink seeps into the paper; he is writing again. The man sits in the dark, a mere echo of what he once was. He writes shadow-truths of his life: it may not be him, but the stories certainly aren't entirely fiction. 'No story is fiction,' The writer thinks. 'No matter how far-fetched, some truth is always retained.' And the ink continues gliding across the thickness of the parchment, tortuously slowly. The paper is another thing entirely until the pen is uncapped, when it loses it's original identity and is at the mercy of the writer. It is putty in his hands;