she's chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
She yearns for her. Ah Elua, it is nothing I can do to help her, and nor do I know how to comfort her with such. I never had one to remember. She passed when I was three and all I know of her is that I look like her.
A milestone and.. the one you want to witness is not there. How many more in this city go through such? Those on the hill? The one you want to witness the worth of your life, and to not hear word.
No wonder all is happening as it has. I pray a well, that it is forgetfulness. For her sake, for the sake of the others. A prayer to Azza, to Eisheth, Naamah, Elua, all the companions. A prayer heard loud and far for safety of one dear to one who's heart I hold close.
Andreas is growing into a prat. Supposedly a version of what Gautier was when he was his age. Elua. I hope that Andreas turns quickly into what I know. Arrogance does not fit him well. He is growing up, and trying to find his place, a marque's beginning limned upon his flesh brings change, and he is struggling to come to peace with it.
I miss him. Prosper. I miss his arms, the afternoons in the kitchen and speaking over a fresh loaf of bread, the confiding of the things that worry, fear, gnaw.
A milestone and.. the one you want to witness is not there. How many more in this city go through such? Those on the hill? The one you want to witness the worth of your life, and to not hear word.
No wonder all is happening as it has. I pray a well, that it is forgetfulness. For her sake, for the sake of the others. A prayer to Azza, to Eisheth, Naamah, Elua, all the companions. A prayer heard loud and far for safety of one dear to one who's heart I hold close.
Andreas is growing into a prat. Supposedly a version of what Gautier was when he was his age. Elua. I hope that Andreas turns quickly into what I know. Arrogance does not fit him well. He is growing up, and trying to find his place, a marque's beginning limned upon his flesh brings change, and he is struggling to come to peace with it.
I miss him. Prosper. I miss his arms, the afternoons in the kitchen and speaking over a fresh loaf of bread, the confiding of the things that worry, fear, gnaw.