Golden Locket: Ch. 1, part 1Chapter IThe King, the Queen, the Island and the WandererSomewhere between United Kingdom and the boundary line of Netherlands and Belgium, there lies an incongruently diminutive island that nobody on face of the Earth has ever heard of, ever been to or ever walked on. Before the natives even dare to speak of the place, people from other known places will mock them, if not they are sent to either an insane asylum or prison for causing a ridiculous pandemonium, which nobody even know why or since when speaking of a place became a pandemonium or why it is even happening.In this island, there exists one village, that looks nothing more like a mere village wherein the tenants seem to only know nothing more than to pillage, plunder, and desecrate; but, the truth behind all the judgment is, they are just a bunch of tenuous, assiduous people, whose lives begin every 6'o clock in the morning and are desperate to have a new life, other than the perpetual work, home and some
Golden Locket--draftPrologueIn Which I Severely Repeat the Phrase "Six o'clock in the Morning""For a thing symbolizes nothing but itself; thus, symbolism symbolizes nothing but imaginary allegory," says a middle-aged, drunk man to the door as he leaves the house, "and this door is nothing but a detestable piece that another wood shits out.""Sir," answers the boy politely, "I don't mean any form of rudeness, but your statement, itself, was an allegory. And the door was made by your very own hands and was destroyed by your foottechnically speaking, your left boot.""Ah," feeling embarrassed at losing three-gold's worth for breaking the door, the middle-aged, drunk man leaves, and then, trying to regain his dignity in half a second, he turns back and barks, "well, pay the rent or leave. I will come back at six o'clock in the morning to collect everything. If you can't pay, I will find something that I can take as a token for a year's rent. And, boy, trust
LinesWe're two thin lines apart.Who stands on the middle part? We're doing it;We're painting it.And yet the lines never overlapAre the ends lost in our fingertips?It's not about meIt's not about you;It's about us,And how can we ever pass through.It is four minutes after midnightIs it too late?Can you decode that?Let's start our line
Start it all over again.Spit it out;Dig it again.Hi, how are you?Hello, how do you do?
No TitleCliché. Love conquers all. If love is so great that it can conquer everything, why can't it conquer distance? It is considered as science too, isn't it? Sparks don't fly when particles are too far apart. Well, Sparks, you need wings to fly.Fly
my spark flies in cloudy, misty weather. I fell
fell deeply into slumber and dreamed that I'm a princess.Princess. I dreamt to be a princess once; but, I figured, princess only had one chance to explore love, so I threw it away. It took three times for me to get to my prince. At the end, though, I turned into a witch and ended up taking the brightness off my prince's hazel eyes. Now, those eyes glistenthey glisten like ice.Ice. This witch is turning her prince's heart into ice. I wish I can make him happyI can't. My hands ruin everything they touched gives d