Eloquence. Prose, I read Cyrano Deberserac Options

[Kontroll]

The desert ground grows abundantly from the tears I shed when all hope is lost. Hope itself cannot keep a man alive for he knows hope is just a shadow behind a stone. The eclipsed sun darkens like the hearts of denizens as once again hope fails. Love, not hope, keeps the man coming back to lay eyes on the golden rose. A rose, yes a rose! Nothing more, nothing less. Oh, I say there is room for more but when we strive for greatness we discourage our hearts and she is there whispering sweet melodies to carry on. Like our Lord dieth for us, I dieth for thee. Love, itself, is a sacrifice, a trust, a membership which musn't be broken off. For without love, ye liveth not. Hearts wither as the rose grows old of love. Crushed beneath the heal of the beast of deception. Love, I sayeth, keeps my heart pumping blood for just one more day. Nothing cannot stop a person when love is entwined around his heart. His eyes see a beautiful creature.