kurautora

School's just a bunch of numbers gathered to make you look good. I remember better days before these empty hours wasted here. Nobody can understand the poet better than the writer; but the poet himself does not know the writer's modus operandi. Those who have made friends with death long enough to recognize him see both poet and writer understood at last in the grave's yawning mouth. The music of the bewitcher draws empty sighs from listeners everywhere, lifting their chains to dance in time to the music. The timeless melodies and harmonic notes seem to flutter like so much confetti, like grabbing a handful of dust from broken china