kalischild

The Girl told the Boy that the night was perfect, and the boy saw it was true.

The raven flew to her lover's arms and the crow flew into the blue.

The blue grew dark, the sky was black as either of their wings.

And Walrusboy wrote poems and then did disturbing things.

And since perfect things should never end quickly the Boy did not to sleep that night.

He walked the banks of the Black River, and rode the roads the dead still ride. He pissed on the graves of the living, and smoked strange, sweet cigarettes. And in between the silver sang the song of a bass string hit by the hammer of god.

It had been twice ten thousand days since anything had felt sane, and the Boy took it as a sign.

Perfect nights only end if you let them slip away like theives into the dark. But those nights aren't perfect.

A perfect night never ends because it will always remembered.

It's good to be reminded why you're fighting the war to begin with.

Om Namai Kalima, Dis nat es teh doon.