||[Jun. 7th, 2004|02:03 am]
dead poets' society
|||||Run by Snow Patrol||]|
and there comes a point when one must learn to stand before a dozen roses and watch them whither away one petal at a time. the memories are gone, and somewhere amidst falling away from the stem and onto the tabletop below, a breath of life is lost. and yet, somehow, pressed between two yellowed pages of a leather-bound book, that affection was preserved; maybe it doesn't look the same, or feel the same, but it's still there...
...and it's all such a beautiful decay.