stl: ave maria
On nights such as this, where he could find no solace in mundane conversation nor any reprieve in the nighttime love songs of the birds, he would sit with this, his holy grail, and read. He would read of great triumph and devastating heartbreak. His mind would flood with lust and betrayal. His every sense was bombarded with varying emotions as he read. His fingers danced slowly across the weathered page, his eyes glossed with the memory written there in his eloquent ways with his impeccable calligraphy.
These tales, he showed to no one. They were not his to share with the world; they were private affairs that he had been graced with the knowledge of. They were black and white photographs of the past, movie reels of the present, the faintest glimmer of hope in the infinite possibilities of the future. These anonymous parables foretold of sorrow and joy, death and the beauty of first life, each as distinct in tone as the next. He had taken it upon himself to weave these words in red into the finest of parchments.
This was his Bible, for his god had given up on him so very long ago...