Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it, everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, never… never forget it.
Curtis Judalet
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Biên tập viên
High Flying Bird
You wore a little cross of gold around your neck
I saw it as you flew between my reason
Like a raven in the night time when you left
I wear a chain upon my wrist that bears no name
You touched it and you wore it
And you kept it in your pillow all the same
My high-flying bird has flown from out my arms
I thought myself her keeper
She thought I meant her harm
She thought I was the archer
A weather man of words
But I could never shoot down
My high-flying bird
The white walls of your dressing room are stained in scarlet red
You bled upon the cold stone like a young man
In the foreign field of death
Wouldn't it be wonderful is all I heard you say
You never closed your eyes at night and learned to love daylight
Instead you moved away