𝔚𝔢 𝔠𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔟𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔰, 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔞𝔰 𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔱𝔴𝔦𝔤𝔰,
𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔞𝔤𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔬 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔯𝔨—
𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔤𝔲𝔪𝔰 𝔥𝔬𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴𝔢𝔡, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔩𝔦𝔢𝔰,
𝔟𝔲𝔱 𝔬𝔥, 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔠𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔰 𝔬𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔥𝔬𝔴 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔤.
𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰, 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔨𝔢𝔡 𝔞𝔰 𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔴’𝔰 𝔣𝔢𝔢𝔱,
𝔡𝔦𝔤 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔴𝔯𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔰, 𝔡𝔯𝔞𝔴 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔦𝔫𝔨.
𝔚𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔰𝔢 𝔠𝔯𝔲𝔪𝔟𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔰,
𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔡𝔞𝔪𝔭 𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔥, 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔯𝔲𝔰𝔱.
𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔣𝔢𝔡 𝔲𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔞𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴-𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫 𝔟𝔯𝔬𝔱𝔥,
𝔱𝔞𝔲𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔲𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔯𝔬𝔱.
𝔑𝔬𝔴 𝔴𝔢 𝔩𝔦𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔩𝔞𝔭𝔰 𝔩𝔦𝔨𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔟𝔬𝔯𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰,
𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔩𝔢𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔨𝔞𝔤𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔞𝔱𝔰.
𝔚𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔳𝔢, 𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔣𝔩𝔢𝔰𝔥 𝔡𝔢𝔠𝔞𝔶𝔰—
𝔴𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔱𝔠𝔥𝔢𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔦𝔯 𝔯𝔦𝔟𝔰 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔰𝔭𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔯-𝔰𝔦𝔩𝔨 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡,
𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔥𝔶𝔪𝔫𝔰 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔥𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔢𝔡
𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔩𝔡 𝔴𝔞𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔤, 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔢 𝔴𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔶𝔢𝔱 𝔡𝔢𝔞𝔡.








hello dearest Adagio you are such a gifted dark writer you know how to make someone flinch 💕
Thank you, I get along with the dark side.
Powerfully penned, Adagio. Incredible write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, for the compliment.