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This diary entry is written by ‹✖[[AntisocialButterfly]]✖›. ( View all entries )
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*cough* Excuse me? What?Category: Stories
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
10:58:32 PM (GMT)
I keep smiling every time I feel the cold of the key around my neck; as I hurry home each morning before the sun rises, after a long night of roaming the city streets, the heavy iron thuds against my chest, as if I had a real heartbeat. Soon, soon, I tell myself; I can't wait to unlock that attic door, and see what's left of you. How long has it been now? Three years? Four? Time is fluid, something my mind never has had a firm grasp on. But when I locked you up there, I know, there were exactly four hours of screaming before you gave up. I measured carefully, watching the hourglass. The smell is almost faded now, too, and I really am just so anxious, so excited to see what's left of you. Isn't it the nature of the artist, to yearn to see his work completed, finished and framed?
Last edited: 17 October 2012

‹-Cyri x Echo-› says :   18 October 2012   996101  
This was pretty interesting... Dude...


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