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"Morrer como amantes podem — morrer juntos, para que possam viver juntos. Mas meninas são lagartas enquanto no mundo para finalmente serem borboletas quando chega o verão; nesse ínterim há vermes e larvas, você não vê — cada um com suas propensões e estrutura peculiares?"
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Libertà, dolce libertà, tu che guidi il popolo con i tuoi capelli infuocati e il seno materno che nutre l'ambizione per i fedeli - lodati, 𝗠𝗮𝗱𝗿𝗲 Libertà! Lode per l'inno e la morte a tutti i suoi amici.
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https://t.co/lXzyDDP9Qo
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But they say blood doesn't forgive & Annelise wouldn't regret it either. Enchanting communion, witchery to modesty. Drawn to each other as the evil's to the worse. She'd loved a man who taught her to love the chaos.
Like calls to like.
So she 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝗺𝗲 it.
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Annelise'd once pray for him. And would use Azazel's rage against him. And would hunt all the way through Canaan in spite of his sins.
She'd aim to set him free, as if he hadn't once wattled her in his 𝘄𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗵. As if he hadn't thrown embers and ruin on her fire heart.
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Back then, Annelise would dream of hope as a winter infant hopes for warm evenings by the lake. That ravenous lake where newts rise for men to drown. By the time they'd been there, Annelise made a siren out of herself.
Hair burning bloodly.
𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 burning brighter.
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You sing songs and hope they carry faith, because you have run out if it, and yet you still throw your heart out to the world and hope it makes it through. One day, you will dance. Your love is where you feel — without fear.