The Escapist

la rosa

It is an eye, light pink, lying coldly on the floor. Like a dead ghost, a fair horse. The silence after a question is raised, the blank screen after the title is typed. A lover's expectations, fallen constellations. It's calling out someone's name, in the cold winter night in Paris, of non existence. For who will miss us after the sun goes down? Who will remember us when the party's over? As the recording is coming to an end, the singer's voice is on the wane.

And as for fortune, as for fame, I never invited them in. Neither does the inspiration that flames in like a devastating storm, my respiration never disturbs the norm.

Sweeping deep, my youth learns how to yearn. A teardrop down my cheek, I wish my drop of blood perceives.

过膝长裙，白筒袜与黑色皮鞋。