On the edgeThe voices picked up, detatched like a loud café; But the room was empty. Lying down, quilt about his neck; he tried to catch snippets of conversation. The crowded words eluded his efforts for comprehension. With the palm of his hand he brushed his hair back, thinking of what to do. The voices went quiet. They turned their attention to him. Their voices piercing his conscience, every syllable pushing him further awake. Sleep! LET ME SLEEP! But they wouldn't let him go, driven further awake he got up. Making his way downstairs he found what he was looking for, a cupboard high on the wall, large, dark-stained wood overlooking the kitchen.On the edge
Frozen orb
Frozen tree
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ADAM
FIRST GUY 2 DIE LOSES!!!!!!!!
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"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players." - Shakespeare - "As You Like It"
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Critics will grumble. Of course they will. That's one of the functions of critics. As an artist it's your job to give them ulcers, and perhaps even something to get apoplectic about. -- Neil Gaiman
why ur so silence on DA - don't submit any lyrics or picture or whatever?
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Demut unserem Ego
ZitaniA
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