/lit/ - Literature

And how precious you are, how precious that chaos could only incarnate you once, and romanticize your short existence with your souls oblivion and your bodies decay, a great tragedy but a dark beauty in itself. The world is full of beautiful things outside of man, but none as beautiful as art, and you are the only art I care for. A perfect portrait. Yet though the vision is forever and is what shall remain long after you are gone, the canvas as tough as it is will not last forever. But your not a painting, your a prince and like those painted centuries ago, beautiful but nowhere as dear as you, they live on in the frame despite it all, and more beautifully despite it all, despite them all just shriveled forms, bones, or dust. And how tragic, how beautiful oblivion it is, how crowning it is to beauty, and how despite it all how comforting the sleep will be.