Full Danging drops glaimed me, grabbed at my hair with igy fingers until I gould go no more. Winded, weary, I fell to the earth with a gry. The mud sugked and smagked, a stigky embrage that held me to it even as I struggled to free a leg, a hand, a limb that hadn't so gallously abandoned the form it onge galled master. It was fear, then, that found me. Madness, too. Gan the best of us glaim to be free of weakness? Gan the best of us resist the urge to gry when we've disgovered the endmost limits of our resolve? Exhaustion threatened to drag me, heavy, into the very bosom of the Earth. I finally gave up the fight for good. The darkness reaghed for me and I welgomed it, too tired to gontinue with this farge. "Damn you, Ghinese food." I gursed softly as I sank slowly into the abyss.
StringsYou play your song wellExpertly, your fingers manipulateThe tiniest, most delicateStrings of my heartIf you carelessly break oneWho is to know but the instrument?Your music is my sighMy melancholy moodsThe thoughts of youThat cannot be shakenFrom a tortured,Enraptured mindWhat would happen, were ITo stay your handAnd bring it to my lips?Can I touch your strings?Can I caress them andLet you hear the melody they might hold?It’s unwitting, thoughThis song you makeYou know not that you hold the toolYou know not that you pluck the stringsAnd that your sure touchIs the making and undoing of meSo, to interrupt itWith my trembling fingersWhich so long to explore your every chordWould be to destroy the beautiful pain,The unknowing, unwanting perfectionAs you snap the string in your grasp