craiga2005
Amuse me. Amuse me to death. Amuse me until I wish to think again, but can no longer strain a thought. Broken, beaten, disenchanted, with what you offer as entertainment and with what is truly good. Amuse me for that is all that their is left of me; that which the clown can control.
A pale green, a drop of blood, things that seem smaller then they should; all of these things can cause me to become ill. The doctors are unsure of what to call my condition. Some call it a disorder, I call it normal. Theres no way to telling how many things can set me off. All I can do is hope for the best.
The vase was full of violets. The ones he left for her when he went. He shall never know what they have meant to her. They began to wilt as time passed, and she felt that their love may some day suffer the same fate. When will he call again?