How I love the rain and all the stormy friends it brings along with her.
This night was beautiful. It continues to be as the breeze rolls in through my little window and caresses my face in the night as I type this out in my little lamplight. The beauty of the night seems to call for melancholy almost naturally. Nature's own little calling for a dark and slow groan, to remind itself of what within resides.
What a clever cellist the wind is with my steep abode's eleventh-floor windows and balcony.
How the tempo besmudges me with this beautiful state of emotion. How it droops my eyelids and sings to my heart to remind it of the darkness which still resides within. Slowly as It brushes against my lips and my chin does it enchant me with the memory of the requiem my own hollow self would hold if I held it against a listening ear.
I gaze outside and notice how Man's little decorations of light and bricks only seem to feel so still and stagnant amidst the life of tonight. The life of the night and the canvas of the world in symbiosis, in agreement that I should see and recall what I do:
Pristine white, pure and flawless, keen and guiltless, she mounts her ebony steed. To be beside her was a gift for that sun and moon. Quite like this one but with less beautiful scenery. I know not what else would bring about this beautiful little frame to mind and heart other than the yearning of this night. This gusty beautiful night...
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