A strange melancholy pervades me which i hesitate to give the give the grave and beautiful name of sadness. On that very night I experienced a live performance from my most favourite band ever, The Cranberries. I had fed the heart of fantasies, the heart's grown brutal from the fair, more substance in the enmities between the red hood and the black fur.
I bade, because the wick and oil are spent and frozen are the channels of the blood, My discontented heart to draw content from beauty that is cast out of a mould. That strange feeling appears as Dolores sung the third song, suddenly the werewolf came abruptly in a greyscale scene, the suspect who have been clenching my eye with a cold fire, but when I think it over, we have gone is gone again, being more indifferent to our solitude. Than 'twere an apparition. O' heart, we are not young nor old; we cannot pay its tribute of forbidden tears.
Ah no more was needed, time to prolong, than dumb and fool. Though is not that easy peasy, farewell, for I am no longer in grieve.
Thank You Dolores, Mike, Noel, and Fergal for the marvellous songs for my dim mind that filled with dishevelled ancient things.
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