The Distant Summer
The ink is still wet on the parchment of your soul, a dark, viscous stain that refuses to dry, and you know that the moment you sign your name, the world will cease to be the place where you merely exist and become the place where you are consumed. You stand in the center of the vast, circular chamber, the air thick with the scent of ozone and crushed lavender, and the shadows here do not move...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 1 Views 0 önizleme