The piano plays like pearls pouring over white keys. Curtains drop and screen the sun as I gaze at the dimming light before my eyes turn dizzy and I enter a sweet, short lived amnesia.
Your rocking armchair is a lullaby. Such is the comfort on your bosoms as you hum, gently running your fingers through my hair, shielding my face away from the $un with your long black silky hair. I remember the taste of your lips, on my lips, from our last kiss.
The coffins of desire have had a hold on me, but no more.
Peace, has set in.
I ask, What month is it?
Do tides rise high?
And does Luna control our minds?
For the fabric of illusion has become weak this season,
I suspect it is winter,
That calls for such merry and glee.
Mist has set in,
but I see it clear.
Over leaves & petals,
I smell the smell of morning dew,
And in the air too.
I hear horses trot,
A figure commanding the north,
I heard the elves squirrelly whispering the other day,
and deep in the forest I saw sprites fly past in the dark.
And horses trot
A figure commands the north.
For the fabric of illusion has become weak this season,
I suspect it is winter,
That calls for such merry and glee.
All that slithers and crawls,
And the strength of beasts,
I summon thee.
And horses trot
A general commands the north,
A pair of dice rolls,
As the eight Immortals watch.
I ask, What month is it?
Do tides rise high?
And does Luna control our minds?
I suspect it is winter,
That calls for such merry and glee.
– Ford.
The Official Diary 