𓏲 ࣪ ₊ ˚
𝅄 . ᠂ ⭒
ִ ˑ 𖥔 ་ ˖ ˑ ⊹
The pendulum of the campane is steadfastly shifting, waiting for the eventual minute to epilogue. That day in a purposeful burg, Paris is at its prime chaperoned by the night sky ushered by chiliads of twinkling stars. The scintillate that is merged from the trove of stars that line up makes the atmosphere even further portentous under the lavish Eiffel tower that stands firmly. The glimmering effulgences of each building and the passing of eyes that goggle in awe, frame a merits that has constantly been enclosed to this will-o'-the-wisp town. This mademoiselle sat pensively on the balcony of her dwelling for a torque, until she was again strenuous with the book that had been in her palms. Page after page of the book she opened slowly accompanied by a look of dubiety and chasmic thought. A trove of past memories glistered through her mind again. With the rubric, 'album 1875: recurring revival, our damsel has settled', tears managed to twist down her angular visage.
