Scent of old books a mystery; a secret port of the dreamers.

Бе истина, а лъжа е.
Бе щастие, а сега се учим от плача си.
Бе смисъл, а безумие цари.
Бе приказка, бе магия,
а сега - ЖИВОТ Е.

This is where I belong, burning in these flames. For everything I have done wrong, I know I am to blame.

We will read books together inside the blanket and stay warm. And keep writing poetry in our respective journals. Time will fly but we will still remain inside the blanket forever.

Stop revisiting chapters, That you know, How they ended.

I love being able to see an un-written future.