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TheWistful
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Name: s t e l l a
Birthday: 5/28/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: Girls, Literature, Animals, Economics, Chocolates
Occupation: Student/Teacher
Message: message me
Member Since:
5/24/2007
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| How life begins is a mystery one can never quite unravel. We observe the downturn of cerement to ashes as the thundering silence pierced our ears with no sympathy. Alas, we pledge ourselves the most fallible and flawed, fearful of ill performance. Such is the extent of our ugliness.
Once in a blue moon, we are bestowed with an Angel. She looks no extraordinary, expect the least of an instant heavenly aura. The Great One has placed her amidst us to look over and inspire and now that her duties are fulfilled, she takes her leave with grace and returns to her celestial position.
How life begins is a mystery one can never quite unravel. But at the end of the journey, one can judge whether the gift of life has been cleanly used.
Xiao Ding, you will be dearly missed. But my dear girl, i know you are in somewhere better and you are there because you deserve more than any of us.
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| There is tranquility in the rhythm of us both breathing heavily and letting the animal in us take charge. The way we thirst is deadly simple, to unite in a passionate kiss and to submerge in hush hush.
p/s: I wonder how are you doing.
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| He told me that you will in the heavens, 7pm a little more than 12 hours ago. They said you were incapable of comprehending a tongue as foreign to you as yours to mine, but i know they were wrong for you waited for my return before embarking on your journey. Thank you. You're a special little friend i will keep safe locked up in my heart.
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| The making of a desperate snowballs into a wishful grant. To sought and tap into the pool of longevity, forbidden and rich. One half for a whole, defying the book of destiny. I seek the dark and your wage will be my youth. With a pact we seal our trade, dancing predictions of black swans.
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| She perched on the edge, squirming. With her face powdered fair and lips dyed a crimson red, she looks a few years senior her age. Donned on she has is her Sunday's best, the same she wears to the chapel down the street, the dainty outlet she casts the last of her faith in. She rubs her palms in a rapid motion and cups her cheeks. Thirteen O'clock. The knock of a licentious run, the leap and the savoring of insanity.
The envision of life with betterments possible with a little monetary grant is irreversible and devastating with a twist. The seek of greater quality is deemed inviting and pleasant and with that we witness a contempt of those who do otherwise. But what might would it take for heightened wisdom, to uncover the key is but buried amidst the loss of prime hours.
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