every angel had dirty hands, even judas planned to just carry on. just picking up the pieces of what lies behind those sorrowful eyes, you can walk away.
there is still a choice, left for the last moment, doesn't have to be made until death. but which death? the death of this body, the death of this hope, the death of this universe? there is still a choice.
at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet.
plato12:41 | Jul. 08, 2009