I sit here, fingers splayed across this mangled parchment and watch the candle burn lower and lower. The number of nights passed in this very position could be the beginnings of some sad song, one that would surely make a kind heart like yours weep. In my dreams, I am visited by the Mother who is yet the Maiden. Her hands touch this ruined flesh with a tenderness that could tear apart the world. It tears apart my soul and gently remakes it, reshapes it into something like a man. -Letters from the Quiet Isle, Unsigned
Art & writing by me.
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