Exiled in an ivory tower, beset by hoardes of mocking clouds and indifferent birds, the dreamer spins ceaslessly. A rope made of faerie lace and silvery webs, poisonous vapour and purple hair. Eyes closed, she shears off bolts of uncertainity and tendrils of musky confusion - flattened residues pool around feet of black marble. Encased in frost and stone, she never even shivered, as the the ice tore apart the tendons and put her heart to sleep. Never even faltered on the loom.
Voice lifted in an eerie song reflecting nothingness, not feeling the wind lashing at her through the open balcony - she lifts her hands to the night. Whirling the spindle she goes on and on, weaving a melody of dead passions and forgotten musings. The floor cracks, the tower tilts... a bit... and then a bit more. And still she sits... spinning... spinning... eternally unliving.
COMMENTS
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Dragonrouge
12:54 Aug 26 2008
One of the best I have read in an year on VR!
Thank you for sharing it!