Lost stories.
There is a story I lost.
It was about the dark, bloodied fingers of a woman, it was about passion and pain, it was written with music and dancing on the mind.
It is lost.
Snatched from me by petty thieves.
Not the kind I admire that are witty and smart, nor the kind with the need. Just a petty thief that saw the opportunity and took something that wasn't theirs.
It happened at least twice last year.
In the end, both stories left of their own volition... I guess.
But lessons must be learned, treasure your stories not only in the notebook, in your heart, in your mind. Keep them close and back them up, it might be boring, but it is easier with a spiteful of wine.
A quote from Hamilton, like the old times, to close this entry.
"Who lives, who dies who tell your story..."
It was about the dark, bloodied fingers of a woman, it was about passion and pain, it was written with music and dancing on the mind.
It is lost.
Snatched from me by petty thieves.
Not the kind I admire that are witty and smart, nor the kind with the need. Just a petty thief that saw the opportunity and took something that wasn't theirs.
It happened at least twice last year.
In the end, both stories left of their own volition... I guess.
But lessons must be learned, treasure your stories not only in the notebook, in your heart, in your mind. Keep them close and back them up, it might be boring, but it is easier with a spiteful of wine.
A quote from Hamilton, like the old times, to close this entry.
"Who lives, who dies who tell your story..."
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