But many times
Oblivion
We drink from the chalice of forgetfulness, And dance the mute minuet of sorrow. Is it true that our eyes confess, How we dread the dawn of the morrow?
I post once a year
I post once a year
The Not so Petit Prince
Or Don't Panic. Just take me to your leader "Hi, my name is Peter, aged twenty three, I have a terrible fear of growing up", says he. "Not very different to other millennial men," I laugh, "you should fit right here then."
I post once a year
Chance
And, these players? They sit through the morose night, Watching their listless life pass by in a flickering, For the game belongs neither to the player nor the played, It belongs to the restless regrets of the unmourned morning.