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How peculiar, the muses that dwell within.
A wild muse, a terror amidst the beauty of words. Nevermore shall it be trapped, lurking beneath sun-kissed skin, but within these pages of an unwritten book. A jewel of hope for its master has been unearthed, and it shall fly, uncaged, without a dis
Il est mort
He is dead, he is gone. Tonight the king of kings, the ruler of rulers, the tyrant of tyrants is dead. Oh how the slaves weep with joy! Oh how the children dance in the streets, and the birds sing, and the women cry out to the heavens with thanks! Not a soul weeps of sorrow, and the sweet taste of triumph lingers in the air. Voices sing out the most beautiful chant. "He is dead, he is dead, he is dead,"

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