ph by dev
keeping away from the face of the world, she was burning, burning in her golden hell. during daylights she painted his face while hiding behind her own veil of distrust, at nights she plastered his face among the stars. he'd be her little god after dark, his glory so divine it would outshine the arrogant Cassiopeia and assassinate the mighty Orion.
seized by the immense wave of rebellion in her youthful days, it got harder and harder for her to measure her consciences and consciousness by every passing day. in her mind, there were only two types of people: ordinary ones who lead ridiculous life only to be locked in ordinary coffins the day they die, and extraordinary ones who are literally gay about passion and mess with love; bleeding is their fuel, yet enthusiasm, for them, is a long-forgotten myth.
we need several fools to line our days in the stars.
