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stare
In the pale moonlight, surrounded by the soft spring air is the holy sepulchur of the deity. Shrouded in mist is his tomb so . . . To look upon his face, they say, would bring, death. For never has a man been born so beautiful that women could die happy so soon sweatdrop heart {lol prettyboy deity} Born to a cloud they say. He ran down the sky in a storm of lightning in the body of a wolf. As he descended like a god, that fine air morn, his form exploded into a thousand radiant lights. So cold was the night that only those beasts of snow, could see such the show. Was he delighted nonetheless? To say otherwise would be the mistake. His rein was of the beasts. And of the beasts he would dwell in domain. DAMNITALLTOHECKLE! gonk Me wants some Zadr. Me likey Shakespeare.
 Madame Joli Rouge · Sat Jul 05, 2008 @ 07:25pm · 0 Comments |
