sing me a lullaby about the young werewolf who woke up with blood on her hands- no, paws, and how she felt as she stumbled frantically past all the ignorant but crying middle-aged women with torn up feather hats and dirt-caked children with fearful faces to a room where she wasn't allowed in. "love, i swear-" she screams but the man with the black-rimmed glasses stops her, says, "it's too late."
YOU ARE READING
endlessly,
Poetrya collection of poetry, or something along that, to the person who made having a lead role in a tragedy play not so bad
