Hugh

Wishes made on rocks falling from the sky, luminescent and rare. Seriously though?

Literature lied; the storytellers, dissatisfied and cut apart, spoke into the sky without hope

and found that missing piece in the book of false, yet to be written, but thought fondly of.

Now I sit, broken like a bottle of liquor impatiently opened by one running away.
My hero and princess are estranged and bitter, because they have seen
how the real story has ended long after the book is shut. One thing, only one thing!

To: (see that light, the fire, the passion…name him…be proud of him)

I would take back every selfish action for that one glimpse.