I hated that particular hour. Rainclouds opened like hands, to rip the seeds from my eyes. Yet a tiny pink flower springs from the filthy space between them. It will be mocked. It will be forgotten. It will be watched, as either an egg or the head of a god.
Thirteen O' Clock
I hated that particular hour. Rainclouds opened like hands, to rip the seeds from my eyes. Yet a tiny pink flower springs from the filthy space between them. It will be mocked. It will be forgotten. It will be watched, as either an egg or the head of a god.