¤ III ¤
What a strange world I've stumbled into.
I'm not sure I belong at all. Even if I don't, however, I can't help except to stare with prying eyes.
In spite of it all, the quaint, the odd, the mourning, every feeling is like a colour, and every colour is beautiful.
Or perhaps that's the romantic in me speaking.
I must miss home. Already. Or him.
I'm not sure I belong at all. Even if I don't, however, I can't help except to stare with prying eyes.
In spite of it all, the quaint, the odd, the mourning, every feeling is like a colour, and every colour is beautiful.
Or perhaps that's the romantic in me speaking.
I must miss home. Already. Or him.