❝ the meaning of life is that it stops. ❞ - franz kafka.
once, there was a prince who rested upon a golden dais. it was made of the finest ores and minerals, particles of mica encased in grecian marble shining in the overhead sun. he rested in the outside light, basked in noon-cast rays of beauty. his reign was markedly peaceful, becoming of a youthful prince such as him; spring-bound eyes looked east for the rising warmth, but found nothing but inkblots on the horizon. cataracts of blood and filth cloud his vision, notes of dissonance playing over and over again in his ears until there was nothing but dead silence. he died there under his beloved sun, killed by his betraying ally: hope. ❝ awfully bright out today, angela... hot out, too. reminds me of egypt... ❞
@diechotic, with love.
