IT ALL STARTED SOFT. gentle, like the arms of a mother embracing their daughter's body, or the warm blow of a evening breeze touching one's skin. truly, they were all a predictive tragedy : as individuals, in their own sacred intimacy that only blossoms between four walls, and as a group itself. egoistical, problematic, DISASTER PRONE. the flip of a coin merely decided their fate — or that's what she thought. and deluded, that's what she once was. the girl you share your notes with, the one who seems too idealistic to act like a machiavellian. she, a poisonous flower, like all beautiful things. delicate enough to trick you; she lighted evidences and destroyed bridges. burned to the ground till there's no proof, then stuffed the remains into bags darker than the blackest night. we all have secrets.
ACCESSORY TO MURDER. oh, what a beautiful sentiment guilt is. depressing like shakespeare's poetry, but just as appealing as michelangelo's sculptures. while it isn't enjoyable, she's used to its company : the feeling has been around in her past just as much as it is in the present, and possibly less than it will be in the future. the nights are the worst part. recurring nightmares, flashes from the repressed episode coming back to hunt consciousness . . . her brain seems not to shut down. it's painful, the feeling of memoirs feeding on guilt. the sorrow grows, but so does her will to fight back.
THERE’S ONE THING YOU SHOULD DO NOW : NOTHING. the last act is always the most bitter. filled with uncertainty and misconception, leaving a pungent taste in one's mouth . . . the deafening waiting. yet, from all of them, she seems the most centered. there's a feeling of obligation, not as much for self advantage, but to keep a unit. laurel is the glue of the exquisite group of murderers. the future oriented, the temperance : the hope midst mayhem.
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