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Poem DumpDear, I'll be your nightingale,
Sing songs to you for free.
Just send away that blue jay,
And say that you love me.
Fog on the windowsill.
You draw on me with a thumb-pad,
Making what you want.
I'm fading, fading, fading; now
Just a lover's haunt.
The boy deserves the galaxies,
The planets, the sun, and stars.
The fates give him black holes.
Let's wear stripes upon big sweaters,
And soak our hair in bleach.
Nautical is the way to go,
Life is such a beach!
If I wanted life to be hard,
I'd be a diamond.
Here's the man I like the best,
Lets me sleep on his soft chest.
I'd surely find the way to say
The thoughts still in my mind
If my batteries were running
On infinity time.
I could write beautiful music,
Even explore outer space,
But I'd rather be at home in my own
What is it you see in me
That makes you act the way you do?
I'm still not sure, but I know this:
My dear, I love you too.
She recalls being precious
A perfect painted thing.
The queens and king
A RiddleI made the boxes with naught but air,
And an odd little plane that's as thin as the air.
Delicate stars, I make them too.
As fast as I can; for they're long overdue.
And I make the birds that cannot fly.
And yet, I know they'll yearn for sky.
How did I make them?
(oh, if only you knew!)
I tell you something:
Paper's the clue.
NeroI need to go somewhere and be the hero
And then I'll burn out just like Nero
'Cause I won't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I'll need.
And if my old dame tries to smother
I'll do as he did to his mother
And though I'm not from Antium
I'll soon find myself growing numb
'Cause I don't love or sleep or bleed.
My fiddle and I are all I need.
And when I rule, they all will sing
'Cause everybody wants a king
Who doesn't love or sleep or bleed
And their self and a fiddle is all that they need
The BeginningHe told them, of course. He told those idiots everything, the whole damn story, including the blunder he'd made, and its consequences. Looking back on it later, he realized he had probably been in shock the whole time. It made sense, anyone would have been.
Soph was about twenty years old, and he'd been that way for a couple of years already, ever since the Hoarde had started attacking humanity from the past. Every day that passed, they ate at another day in the past. It sickened him. Those creatures had absolutely no regard for proper time and causality protocols.
It didn't seem to affect anyone else that way, though.
The Hoarde was the result of a human creation, of course, like everything bad in the world, though no one else knew about them. Then again, no one else had undiluted access to the power of creation. Even he didn't know much about the Hoarde, only that they appeared through some tear in The Fabric of The World and started killing people off. They appeared at some point in
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