And it is when eve sheds her nuances on our fortune that our very last match flares up. Somehow like throwing ourselves into an obscure crevasse. Fated but, yet again, expected. It is as though everything amongst us scrambled their way through our scars and into their freedom. It fucking hurts, of course, but the twinges are soothing. They trace a template so beautiful no naked eye can take in such witchery. Life is haunting, it sure is. I guess maturity comes from upholding our scarlet cruor and using it as oil for our rouge mischances. Growing, they say, is letting perceptions dance until their feet wear out. Until our lashes bloom in blazing petals and our lips imbibe their chains. Maybe there is a certain art to dying our heartbeats slam their impending tempo to. Maybe they harbour the anthem to our last breath, as it chants its farewell lyrics once we leave.
Addah Monoceros.
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