06-19-2015, 01:53 PM
bent unto sin, and only unto sin; and that continually. Love is certainly a conqueror. Love – or what creatures like you call love – conquered your common sense (what scraps there were of it). And true enough, you conquered her. You decimated her, left her in scraps and splinters and both of you splattered in blood. Perhaps love is more a dictator, a force screaming out what you should do, say, feel, while you’re left with no choice in the matter. She has conquered and she has been conquered, and now neither matters. Neither matters because she is not power-hungry (the things she wants she wants for the reasons of the Id, for bloodlust and whimsy, her foundations). Neither matters because none of them are above or below her. My corpse masterpiece is not so much sociopath as she is madwoman. She does not think that they feel or have desires, her playthings, the girls she wraps herself around. But she doesn’t think she herself has them, either. All of us are real and unreal, so sayeth Chantale. “Who it is doesn’t matter,” she muses, “someone who loves you and would let you. Someone who you defeat. Him. Her.” She gestures to the passersby, the nameless faces she will never remember. “They’re all the same, on the inside. The only difference is how you hunt them.” “Bring me a heart,” she says, as if she is an evil queen in a fairytale, “and tell me their story. Real or unreal.” how original a sin. |
soo if you wanna play out the heart-hunting thing you could ask for a volunteer on plots or we could just pretend it was a vagabond or nykeln can come to her senses :p im good with whatever.