He conquered the bloody world. And it didn't matter. Not to him anyways.
Sephiroth laid on the ground, bloodied as all fallen men were, his midriff opened in half, his eyes wide open perhaps surprised in death, long smooth hair covering the most of his face.
Blood dipped from his fist, he seethed and breathed and didn't know what to feel.
same title, same feel, different peeps
did we miss the train?
all we had were memories, too much for my small heart to bear. contrived and sunken, he wanted to show the world that he took illusions of love, even skewed memories of vastly deluded ignorance, seriously.
the beer laid on the table. impressions matter in this shallow existence. enabling a wallowing. the ever impressionist thought of mimes, he thought about how they enclose themselves in their bare hands. people trap themselves with lies.
the beer laid there. hurt always ensue after separations, but why only do deserved aggrievences with excess drama get validation to which people painfully accept? he listened absently to the jukebox, resigned to misery and blues, the coos of the saxophone the crooning of stevie.
let me cry... let me fly..
the rocks laid there. the beer downed. he thought about lost loves, their significance. he didn't love her, he couldn't. he just hated losing, he thought. you don't love someone when you fuel your delusions, your addictions.