The establishment is changing. Ways of reform are striking throughout every part of my life.
There are wars and rumors of wars. I can even stomach to look past all the treacheries and hubbub that muddy the waters.
I felt like sinking in silk that one time you broke all my clay pots, and said that painting them would just whitewash what really was there. The storm came, and I took my eyes off you.
Never did I think that so much obsession, so much self satisfaction would ever become an alternative to focusing on you.
This whole time, through all this postulation, and stark hope, I thought that there would be nowhere else to look. I didn't know. I didn't think to look for it.
-If I can't carry on, you'll have to understand why.
My bones are tired, and I would rather drink and smoke than have to sing again. It's just not fresh, like cut grass or freshly sawed lumber. That morning twinkle, that fresh pep step of breathing easy, it's all a faded memory. I sometimes think about going back. I often reminisce the times of zeal and youth, where musical passion beat life through my veins. When I looked up and he was raptured in song, and she had a soft smile with her eyes closed, cooing sweet praises to the King.
I heard this one chord though, it sunk my soul. It felt like I was in love, or knew how to be that way.
Maybe I'll still keep music. I'll have to be convinced of it - Aslan will have to tell me. Or else I'll let it go.
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