Against the howl of children's laughter, the sound of agony slowly shimmers subliminally,
We are but children of our device, rotting away at the foundation of what we precieve as
purity. We are archetypes of our own discovery, whether it be purified or diminished by the poor choices we make,
The fault bleeds against the guilt, weathered misfortune grows tiresome in the pages of our broken and discarded memories that we choose to lose, but never really forget,
How can we forget what has been planned out to us in a haunting inevitability? Destiny is the rust we leave behind when we lost track of that essence, bound and forgotten in the misery of what should of been or what shouldn't of been,
These are our stories, our pages in that somber novella. Do you read the pages, knowing that they could take you somewhere you might regret? Read and find out.....