evildevilgirl5

“Tell me what you see.” Swallowing hard, she opens her eyes once more, escaping the chaos within: A grey sky, painted with bubbling, silvery hues. Flecks of white scatter across its canvas, floating  and gathering around them. They speckle her hair, her lashes, her clothes. They land ever so lightly on her skin like the faintest of butterfly kisses. She glances at him. His hair blends in with the snow, and the flakes glitter against his skin. His eyes of gold shimmer with delight as he watches the storm increase. It looks as though he belongs here. “Grey clouds,” she whispers. “The snow practically dancing a

”If you so despise this world, why not reach out? Why not take action? Why not change what you can?” “Makishima, I am a humble writer. My books never seem to leave paperback status, yet I pathetically continue to do so in hopes of becoming a best seller.” Not here. Not with this system. ”Channel that creativity. Utilize it to catalyze that change this world so desperately starves for.” Golden eyes glisten as they peer into your own. “I can’t, Makishima...” Your eyes flutter as tears drip from burning, moistened ducts. “Then,”  pristine, pale hands rest on your shoulder.

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uELhJmYq2i0 Please listen while you read!) “And thus concludes our tale of Beauty and the Beast...” The book closed with a soft tick, and he leaned against his arms with a sigh. A ruffle of his snowy hair, a clearing of his throat, he smiled at you gently before placing a hand on your head, carefully cradled in his lap. You glanced up at him. “Read it to me again, Makishima,” you said almost in a whisper. A quiet, airy chuckle seeped through his lips as he swiftly brushed away loose strands of your hair. “Really now,” he replied. “Again? Are you not weary of his

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJpAIOFN5WQ Please listen while you read!) “I have a question for you, Makishima.” Limpid pools of gold flash over in your direction as his book is softly closed in his lap. “Ask away.” The swish of the fan above you brush away loose strands of hair tickling your face. You count each cycle: 1...2...3, much resembling the thoughts swirling in your mind. “What do you think,” you pause a moment, allowing its gravitas of your thoughts press your mind. “it means to be human in this world?” Silence, save for the whirring of the fan’s gears, the soft classic