segunda-feira, 4 de abril de 2011

#3 - A Lunatic's Lament

"In an abashed state of mind, the Artist begins to blame Annabel for what he has obviously done to her: his depression and paranoia have turned to rage. He moves as quickly as his feet will carry him toward the center of town. Not only is he running from the grisly murder scene, but he's running from the ringing of Annabel's voice in his head. It's as if her spirit is chasing him, torturing what little sanity he has left. He cannot look her in the eyes, he knows it will weaken his anger and he simply cannot allow that to happen. Not now. The Artist begs and pleads with her to leave him be as he sprints toward the town, his intentions still unknown even in his own mind. There's one crippling thought that the Artist cannot seem to escape even in madness: Annabel is the only girl he has ever loved."

The depth of a man's soul can not be measured in a matter of meters and fathoms but rather it is in my opinion only quantified by his proximity to heaven and hell. It was in such a state that I ushered myself past the town tavern, bursting at the seams with the sounds of laughter and drunken people playing. had it only been a different night, a different place, a different kind of man passing by the threshold of that innocent pub. runken piano playing. The events that transpired at that point would have undoubtedly been drastically different. I can only guess if anyone outside that place had a clue when the exclamations of mirth became the desperate screams of the helpless, begging for their very lives.

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