13 parts Ongoing November nights are especially stricken with melancholy, as if the ghosts of all winter past come rushing to haunt her heart.
She was a captive of her love, her desire, and her dreams.
There's always a special quality to the loneliness of dusk, a sorrowness more infectious than the night.
She had earned his trust. She had never strayed, betrayed, abandoned. She'd been stalwart, true, loving.
To her, he was her everything. But to him, she was only a secret.
He was a prince and she was merely his lover.
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Dismount your high horse. come take claim of the girl you ruined. Come lay eyes upon the desolation you left in your wake.
Do you not hear the devil at your shoulder sharpening his daggers? He sits heavy on your subconscious. Dauntingly smirking at me from afar.
Enough of his wretched sins, speak to me with your eyes and perhaps somewhere, some day, at less miserable times, we may repent.
In the arms of dusk.
