/lit/ - Literature

Clamase, head hung, with no expression and still lay upon her noose. Her head rose, for her's to come upon mine, lifting her thigh aloft, with ankle bent, and thus, with grace, in the air into a formal ballet. Petite black shoes, skid acrossed the floor into her stumbles and agony to be continuous had ceased. Her frail arms, those which blue dwells within and purple throughout, there, rested upon my head that lies upon her lap,

"Tell me Clamase, how does such elegance flow throughout your spirit whenever you do a new?"

Clamase, from a delicate movement, pushed away the curly brown hair that blinds my ear, with a clear voice,

"Kadocelly, my love, for my life nor happiness wouldn't be due if you weren't here to joy with I."