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Creative Writing Share your fan fiction, stories, poems, essays, editorials, song lyrics, or any other related written work. All written must be your creation. Start a new thread, and keep replying to that thread as you add on more chapters. Anyone can join in at anytime.


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  #1  
Old 07-21-2011, 05:16 AM
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Default What Dreams Are Made Of

(A/N This was something I made over at DA and decided to post here. And I'm going to tell you the same things I told everyone there. None of the characters in this story have names. I did that on purpose. They are just referred to as "him", "her", "the sister", and "the boyfriend". The story does jump around a little. I also did that on purpose to confuse you even more.)

"Unstable dream, according to the place,
Be steadfast once, or else at least be true.
By tasted sweetness make me not to rue
The sudden loss of thy false feignèd grace.
By good respect in such a dangerous case
Thou broughtest not her into this tossing mew
But madest my sprite live, my care to renew,
My body in tempest her succour to embrace.
The body dead, the sprite had his desire,
Painless was th'one, th'other in delight.
Why then, alas, did it not keep it right,
Returning, to leap into the fire?
And where it was at wish, it could not remain,
Such mocks of dreams they turn to deadly pain
"
~"Unstable Dream" by Sir Thomas Wyatt

---

He brought her roses.

Her smile was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Normally she was indifferent to roses, but this night was special. She gasped and smiled and the sight of her blue eyes lighting up was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "Thank you!" she said and kissed him on the cheek. She was gone before he could register it but the skin on his face felt very, very warm.

"They're beautiful," she said, placing the bouquet in a vase. They were also expensive, a cluster of red roses that were sweet and soft and had not dropped a single petal on his way here.

"And cliché," her sister remarked, coming down the stairs with her boyfriend. She was regal as a queen and dressed like one too. She gave him a simple nod and was out the door in seconds, her hand in her boyfriend's.

The silence they left was overwhelming, and he could see her expression dropping. The bright blue eyes were dimming like the sky with an approaching storm and he went to her side. "Forget them," he said to her, his hands on her shoulders. "Let's go out somewhere. The night is beautiful."

He did not need to see her face to notice the blush. "Where to?" She asked, leaning against his chest. Her heart beat against his ribs.

"Anywhere you like," he replied, kissing her on the ear.

-

They did not go anywhere. They roamed the empty streets, arms linked, laughing, dancing, bantering like children. The streetlights were warm and golden which was just fine because his heart felt exactly the same way. He found himself watching her, every move was like a dance and every time she met his eyes with hers he felt his heart caught on a hook. People smiled at them, their happiness infectious. The city was their playground and for once they could act like the children that they no longer were.

The park was so very empty and silent, but they did not mind because the privacy suited them just fine. They had calmed down, strolling along the moonlit paths and talked of small things. It reminded them of childhood days, where they played together in this very same park. The stars and moon eventually became dark though, and thunder rumbled in the air.

"It's going to rain," she said. There was a smile in her voice.

He frowned at the sky for ruining his night. "It will not," he replied. "The forecast didn't predict ra—" A clap of thunder cut him off and the heavens above opened and spilled their load onto the earth below.

She laughed and smoothed out her wet clothes. "What was that? Something about no rain?" she asked with a playful laugh. She threw out her arms and twirled in place, letting the cold rain soak her hair and clothes and shoes. Suddenly her hands grabbed his arm and yanked him close. "Come on, let's dance!" She yelled and swung him around, laughing joyously.

He found a smile on his own face and he danced with her in the rain. They splashed through puddles and rolled along the wet ground and let the thunder and water make them feel more alive than they ever had before. Somehow during their dance he found her pressed up against him, her head tilted up and eyes staring into his. It was so dark and he could not see her face at all but he held her small body close to his. I love you, he meant to say. He had every intention of saying it, but what came out was, "Do you love me?" He gave her roses, took her dancing, laughed with her and wiped away her tears. She knew he loved her. But did she love him?

The pattering of rain filled the silence. He felt her body quiver in his arms and for a moment he thought she was shivering from the cold, but then he realized that she was laughing. "Of course I do, you silly goose!" She said before she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him. He was warmed right down to his toes and he felt his heart swelling in his chest until he thought it would burst.

-

"Are you going to buy that?" The woman asks him impatiently.

"Yeah, but—" he turns and sees the sister staring at him, tapping her foot. This was the same store he bought the roses from, but it was different. He had not met the sister there, and hadn't he already bought the roses?

"Pah!" She says, tossing her head like a restless horse. "Roses, always roses! It's so common and overused, roses have lost their meaning."

"What would you suggest?"

"What would you? Anyways, do you know what time it is?"

-

The crash makes him jump like a cat, so loud and unexpected and sharp. It prickles the back of his head like ants and raises the hair on his spine—

Her hands cover her mouth in shock. "I-I'm sorry!" she says, azure eyes wide. "I didn't mean to drop it! Oh, I'm such a klutz!" She scrambles for a broom but he already has one.

"Don't worry about it," he says, sweeping up the pieces of the broken clock. "It was old anyway."

"I'm sorry," she repeats, her head hung low so her cornsilk hair hides her face.

He brushed it away. "Don't be," he says with a smile. "It can be replaced." She's so pretty in this light, even though her eyes are puffy from tears and her nose is turning red. "It's just a clock."

She looks at him, her gaze so open and innocent that she looks like a child. "But you won't know what time it is," she says quietly. There's an undercurrent of worry in her tone, like a taut wire beneath the surface. She grips him by the front of his shirt, her face suddenly intense. "Do you know what time it is?"

-

His fingers sweep across the piano keys, filling the room with the tranquil notes of Chopin. He's inside his house and he can't remember how he got there. There's a reason why he playing, something for someone—

"Is there a problem?"

The music stops with a clatter of notes like glass bells shattering. He turns and there's the boyfriend, sitting on his couch and reading a book. He meets the curious gaze which is so very piercing that he feels himself squirming. "What do you mean?" He asks, unsure whether or not he wants to know the answer.

The boyfriend slowly puts the book down. "You're sitting all wrong," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "It must be the air. It's kind of wrong, you know?"

Now that he mentioned it the air is rather odd. It's thick like pudding and hangs about the room like a blanket and it's so hot and stifling—he shakes his head and suddenly the feeling vanishes. The piano is playing again, but he doesn't remember telling his fingers to move. It's not Chopin, but a slower, dragging melody with a strict rhythm that pulls its notes out of cold moonlight and dark shadows. It reminds him of roaming city streets and moonlit walks in the park—

"Wrong note." All of a sudden the boyfriend is sitting next to him on the bench but he has no idea how he got there. "It's like this." Long fingers stretch out and dance across the keys. It's Chopin again. "Do you know what time it is?" He asks as he plays, easy as breathing.

The question stuck him like a blow and he glares at the boyfriend, who pointedly ignores him. "Why the hell do you want to know?" He demands, because that's what's weird, everyone has been asking him that lately and it's really starting to get on his nerves.

The boyfriend turns his head a little and raises an eyebrow. For a moment he did not say anything and let the piano sing as he played the song perfectly without even looking at the keys. "Well, do you know?" He asks, his tone simple and sincere.

-

"Well, do you know?"

He blinks and it takes him a moment to realize that he's now standing and that he has a bouquet of roses in his hand. The sister's arms are crossed, her foot tapping loudly in staccato. He blinks again, feeling dizzy. "What just…?

"Yes?" The sister says, leaning a little closer. She looks like she's waiting for something.

He quickly shakes his head. "It's nothing," he tells her. "What were you saying?"

Her eyes roll. "The roses, they're so unoriginal! Every other guy on the face of the planet gives roses, be different for once in your life! Besides, who wants blue roses?"

"Blue—" he looks down and gasps. The rose petals are a shocking blue like eyes that were the color of a fresh sky and were slowly wilting before his eyes.

"Try something else," the sister's voice seems to come from very far off. But that's ridiculous, she's right next to him.

"Like what?" He snaps back. He's tired of her constant criticism, but she at least seems to know what's going on.

"Try this," she says and presses something into his palm. It's sharp and prickly and most definitely not a flower. "What…?" he asks, looking down. Was this some kind of a joke? He looks up to ask her, but she's gone and he wonders if she was ever really there. He feels his heart hammering in his chest and he slowly uncurls his fingers to look at what was in his hand.

Rosemary.

It hits him like a lightning bolt and something in the back of his mind is pinning out of control and somewhere the clock is tick tick tickingCRASH and the sister and her boyfriend are holding hands while the rain pours down onto his face.

He grips the rosemary tight, sending sharp needlepoints of pain down his arm. He lets the pain bring him back to reality. The ground is solid beneath his feet and everything is fine now.

-

He's lying in his bed, watching the pale ceiling slope away from him. The covers are a mess because he was always a restless sleeper and now they're tangled up around his legs. The morning sun is shining through his window and lending a soft, watery light to everything that makes the place look like a dream. He lets his eyes roam, darting to the bookshelf filled with the patchwork of books he's gathered over the years, to the dresser and the pictures on the wall. He looks everywhere but the nightstand. He hears the tick of the clock, like claws tapping against metal but that doesn't make any sense because his clock is digital and the alarm should have gone off a long time ago.

His eyes make one more inspection of the room before he reluctantly turns his head to look at the nightstand. At first he just stares at the wood and the shine of the varnish, but eventually his eyes are drawn upwards as if some force is pulling them. He reluctantly looks at the neon green numbers. It's seven o' clock. He shuts his eyes and turns away. He won't look again.

It's seven o' clock, and he should be getting up soon because he has to go to work. It's seven o' clock, and he thinks he should stop by her house later, probably after he gets off from work. He hasn't seen her in a while and she always brightens up his day.

It's seven o' clock, and everything is normal. Everything is where it should be. There is nothing at all wrong with the world. Nothing wrong with the watery sunlight or the walls that are turning off white or the still air that is so thick and hot that he can barely breathe and he's covered in sweat. Seven o' clock seven o' clock seven o' clock seven o' clock seven o' clock seven o' clock seven minutes late to her house and he's jogging down the sidewalk and holding the roses tightly to his chest to the petals don't fall off from all of the bouncing. He turns the street and curses himself for being late but it's alright because she always forgives him and smiles that golden sunshine smile. He finds her house and opens the front door without knocking.

The sound blasts from the house and someone is pounding on his piano. He sees that he has somehow opened the door to his house and he sees the boyfriend sitting at the piano, his fingers blurred over the keys like fluid flames. The music pounds through the walls like the pulsing veins of some gigantic beast and rises through the cracks in the floor and swamps him in a powerful symphony of sound that leaves him breathless. He knows the tune, it's Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain but he's never heard someone play it on the piano before. He leans against the door that he doesn't remember shutting and watches the boyfriend.

Despite the ferocity of the music and the movement of his hands, his face is perfectly calm and composed. Something is wrong. He knows that no one can play that hard and look like that. The boyfriend wasn't even moving or swaying on the bench, his back straight as plywood. He stumbles over and watches, captivated by the fingers and how they move, he tries to keep up with them but he can't register which keys they play and gives up.

"Look at the mirror."

The voice was not a request, but a command. The music is pushing him, driving him and he feels himself shaking to his core and the boyfriend is staring down at him like a god and he wonders how he ended up on the floor. The ground is trembling, dancing to the wild tune the skips and snaps like wild dogs and demons. Those eyes are pinning him down and he needs to get out of here, away from this hellish place. "How do I leave?" He asks, his tone pleading.

"You go through the Looking Glass." The boyfriend answers, and even though the music is roaring his voice is clearly audible. "But you can only go through it if you leave your reflection behind. Only those with no reflection can get through the Looking Glass."

"What in the world are you talking about?!" He screams, forcing himself to his feet as the room sways as if he's dancing in the rain.

"The Looking Glass," the boyfriend replies simply.

He can feel the mirror pulling at him, trying to draw his gaze the same way the clocks did. He fights it though, because he does not want to look into the mirror and he knows that something awful is waiting for him. Someone is tugging on him arm and he hears a voice, "Listen, I know you're afraid, but you have to do this. I know it's normal to fear the unknown—"

"Shut up!!" He screams irrationally, twisting away from the hand that grabs him. The music surrounds him in a vortex of sound and jagged teeth and there is thunder overhead even though it wasn't supposed to rain tonight—"There is nothing wrong with me! Everything is fine!" Lies. Nothing is fine in this place but he refuses to accept that his reality is being warped like this. He needs something to hold onto, something to believe.

"I understand," the voice says and it's maddeningly familiar but he can’t quite place it. "I know you must feel safer here, in this world but you must—"

"Leave me alone!" He yells and covers his ears but the music is still there and the pianist's fingers are still playing and pounding and oh god make it stop.

Even through the mad music he can still hear the voice. When it speaks again it sounds afraid.

"You can't do this. You can't let yourself sink like this; if you do you'll never return! Wake—"

"Go away!!" He turns around and strikes out at the speaker. His heart nearly stops when he sees blue eyes that are wide with shock. In the background he sees the mirror and he doesn't look at it but out of the corner of his eye he can see a bright light and it looks as if the piano is on fire. The borders of the world are blurring becoming indistinct and already she is gone, fading like smoke. He sees the room dissolving like sand and he lets himself fall back. He sees the clock shattering over and over again and blue eyes look at him what time is it, the sister is tapping her foot and always roses, you're so predictable, the boyfriend staring at him coldly with his fingers placing the piano that is wreathed in flames go through the Looking Glass you fool or all is lost and all he wants to do is just sleep.

He closes his eyes and feels something inside of him settle down. The darkness is soft and silky like rose petals. He tries to drift, but something is in the back of his mind, whispering to him like a half-forgotten memory. He needs to do something…there's something unfinished here…He tries to bury himself deeper into the blackness where nothing is chaotic and all is peaceful. Suddenly he smells rosemary.

He wrenches his eyes open and he is lying in his messy bed, watching the pale ceiling slope away from him. The covers are a mess and tangled around his legs because he always was a restless sleeper. He blinks a few times, trying to adjust to his surroundings. "Huh," he says. "Weird dream." It has a certain sense of irony to it, because he had spent most of his dream denying that he actually was in a dream. He would have laughed, but the memories still flit through his head and he can still hear snatches of Mussorgsky. His phone vibrates on his night stand and he reaches over and slides it open. It's from her, asking if he wants to come over after work. He smiles to himself. He hasn’t seen her in days, maybe he'll buy her roses before he gets there. His finger hovers over the reply button, but he pauses before he presses it. All of a sudden his heart is racing and his mouth is dry. The letters on the tiny screen blur and he has to blink to refocus them.

He takes a breath and holds it, then lets it out. It didn't help. He wants to type the reply, but he has to check first. He feels his cellphone, smooth and cold in his fingers. It feels just like he would expect it to. That doesn't tell him anything though. He steels himself and looks up, going right for the clock. The green letters spell out six forty-two. He closes his eyes and memorizes the numbers, which is the easy part. He has to make sure. After this final test there is no going back, no denying it anymore. For some reason, he feels fine with that.

He opens his eyes. The clock reads two seventeen.

Oh.
__________________
Guy 1: I wasn't that drunk
Guy 2: Dude, you were in my fireplace yelling "Diagon Alley"

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----
Dear Edward Cullen,
You sneak into little girls' rooms and you live forever.
How original.
-Peter Pan
----
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  #2  
Old 07-21-2011, 05:18 AM
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Default Re: What Dreams Are Made Of

(Gods I HATE character limits. Rest is here.)

-

He stares blankly at the clock, feeling the numb sense of discovery wash over him. He stares for so long that the numbers start to blur and coil like green snakes and they twist around each other in knots. He blinks and looks again and the clock reads thirty-six o' two, which isn't even a time at all. So that's what has been going on, and his friends had been trying to warn him this entire time. And of course he didn't get it, but it would be just like his friends to try and explain things to him in the most vague way possible. He sets his phone down and gets up. He's wearing his day clothes and he would love to say that he remembers pulling them on, but he honestly doesn't. He has to stop lying to himself now.

Now that he knows the truth of this world everything seems different now. The air is stale and silent and the whole world is slightly off-balance. Everything seems hollow, a cheap imitation of what it's supposed to be. It was lucid dreaming, all of it, but for some reason he was not in control. This whole place could come down around him any moment, and he had to get out.

He needs to find her. And if this world followed any sort of pattern—and he was sure it did—then he knows exactly where she will be.

It's raining and he's back in the park. He did not walk there, in fact he saw the world blur for a moment before he was sort of jerked into place. He hears her laughing close by and she's pulling on his arm. "Come on, let's dance!" She says, breathless and excited.

The rain was so cold and refreshing, the lightning and thunder flashing and shaking the ground. He feels more alive than he ever has in his dreams and he thinks that he has escaped. After all, this was the place that he had been at before he started dreaming. He laughs with her and dances, feeling as light as a feather. They splash in puddles and tumbled in the wet grass. Just like before she ended up in his arms and he felt the question rising in his throat like a bubble making its way to the surface. "Do you love me?" He asks her, holding his breath as he waits for her answer.

There is silence, and once more he feels her laughing against him. "Of course I do, you silly goose!" she replied and kisses him, and everything is alright now. He had no idea how he could have thought this wasn't real, not with his pulse hammering and her warm body pressed up against his. He feels her hands close around his wrists and he lets her pull his arms up. He still kisses her and intends to make this moment last as long as possible, but he has to stop for air. "Will you stay with me forever?"

She tilts her head a little and nods, smiling widely. He kisses her again, but the click of metal nearby makes him pull back. "What was that?" He asks her, and then he notices that he can't move his arms. Her hands have turned into shackles and they are clamped tightly around his wrists. "What—what's happening?" He demands, looking at her fearfully. "What are you doing?"

Her smile is nothing warm now. Her face is now like a cracked mask, showing the ugly truth lying underneath. The sunshine is gone, replaced by a smirk that had been carved onto her face with a knife. She pulls him to her, her metal hands inescapable. "I'm staying with you forever," she whispers, and her voice is a chill winter wind that cracks trees like toothpicks. Her hands grip him tighter and he sees that their flesh is started to melt together to become one being. "This way, you will never leave me, and I will always be a part of you." She leans to kiss him again, but he pulls away from her and they are falling again, but they land not in wet grass but a field of poppies. The scent is overwhelming and there are black rose petals drifting from the sky.

Despite her being smaller than him, she has him pinned down into the flowers. "Don't fight it," she tells him, her eyes empty and blank like a doll's. "If you stop fighting then you'll know true peace. Nothing can ever hurt you here, and you will have me forever." She leans down so their faces are inches apart, and he can feel the cold radiating from her dead flesh and see her rosy skin being corrupted by the paleness of a corpse.

He is trembling now. He can't see any escape. "But I don't want you," he whispers, feeling his throat close up. He wants the girl he remembers, the one that is waiting for him somewhere out in his world, not the monster born out of his nightmares.

She tilts her head in a sick mockery of her real life counterpart. Her hair drags along his cheek and it feels it wet seaweed and slime and he wants to thrown up. "Why?" She asks, sounding hurt. "I can be anything you want." The rose petals are in her hair but some of them have turned to ashes.

"I don't want your dreams," he tells her, his voice stronger now. "I want my reality!" He feels her hold slipping on him. Now that he knows where he is, he knows exactly what he wants, and the dark fantasy promises have no hold on him. He sees now that they are just a thin veil that she is trying to bind him with when she should have used ropes. He pushes against her and they stagger to their feet. Her flesh is slipping from his wrists but she grips on desperately.

"Why?!" She cries, her voice breaking like the clock. "What does she have that I don't?"

"Everything," he answers, and he knows in his heart that it is true. Her grip is so hard that he can feel the bones in his wrists grinding together and it's starting to really hurt. His eyes drift past her and he sees the mirror behind her, standing proud and tall. She has no reflection, but he does. But it's not him, he's blurred and distorted and constantly changing, another factor of his dreaming. Then the answer hits him and it is so simple that he wonders why he never saw it before. Through the Looking Glass, no reflection. Of course!

She sees something change on his face and she tries to press herself to him, mould their bodies together, but he jerks away and her fingers easily slip from his wrists because he is finally in control now. He grabs her shoulders and shoves her as hard as he can. She screams and stumbles back into the Looking Glass and it is shattered into a thousand pieces that sparkle like raindrops and rest in the poppies with the black roses. The Looking Glass was broken, and now he had no reflection. He expected to see the poppy field on the other side of the mirror, which would make sense, but he sees a pale mist instead. It is the first thing he has ever seen in this nightmarish dream that does not feel dangerous. He squares him shoulders and steps forward boldly. He knows that this is it, that this is what he needed to do all along. He steps through the Looking Glass.

He falls into darkness, but this one is different. He feels as if he is drifting, and he suddenly has the sensation of him lying down with sheets tangled around his body. However he has not left the dream world just yet.

"Always roses," the sister says, although she is smiling now.

He sighs and turns to her. "And what would you suggest?" he asks in a long-suffering tone.

She smiles brightly. "Well, for you I would choose these." She presses a handful of flowers into his palm. Traveler's Joy, apple blossoms, edelweiss, and goldenrod. "As for my sister, tulips are her favorite." She smiles and pats his head and just like that she is gone.

Someone is playing the piano behind him. He smiles at the familiar tune. Chopin, always Chopin. He turns around and there is the piano, with the boyfriend sitting at the bench and playing. "Well done," the boyfriend says, a true smile on his face. "I knew you would get it eventually."

"Thank you," he says, and it comes right from the bottom of his heart. He sees the boyfriend and then he too is gone. There is something warm around him and he has to wake up now.

He opens his eyes and he knows right away that this is real. He still checks his clock to make sure. Six forty-one. He blinks and the numbers are still there. He smiles and can't stop himself from laughing at it all.

Someone next to him moves and he freezes in shock. It is her. In his bed. She looks at him with sleepy blue eyes and smiles. "Did you have sweet dreams?" She asks, resting her head in her arms. He notices that she is wearing one of his shirts.

The question is so absurd that he starts laughing again, causing her to look at him funny. He knows he is probably hurting her feeling and he draws her closer. He's starting to remember now. After wandering around in the rain they had gone to his house, which had been closer at the time. They had dried off and warmed up and he had given her his clothes because she didn't have any of hers to wear. He rests his head in her hair and smiles. "Not as good as waking up like this," he murmurs and feels her giggle.

It was six forty-four, and everything was just fine.
__________________
Guy 1: I wasn't that drunk
Guy 2: Dude, you were in my fireplace yelling "Diagon Alley"

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C/ ▪ |▪|░✧░
██ ◡’ノ░░░
███v█░░░
███ █░░░ This comment reminds me of a puzzle...
----
Dear Edward Cullen,
You sneak into little girls' rooms and you live forever.
How original.
-Peter Pan
----
Reply With Quote
  #3  
Old 07-21-2011, 05:19 AM
Enkaku_Kumori's Avatar
Enkaku_Kumori Offline
 
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Default Re: What Dreams Are Made Of

NOTES HERE cuz that's how I roll. There's a lot of symbolism in this story, which you probably guessed, and I'll go in the order they appeared.

Red roses- A symbol of love, no duh.
Blue roses- Symbolic for mystery and fantasies. The blue roses represent the main character dreaming, since his dreams are all fantasies.
Clocks and mirrors- In lucid dreaming, it is said that the best way to tell if you are dreaming is to look at a clock or a mirror. With a clock, the number will randomly change or they won't make sense, and with a mirror your reflection will be blurred, distorted, grotesque, or have no reflection at all.
Rosemary- Rosemary for remembrance? She's telling him to remember the difference between reality and dreams. Basically her own version of saying "Wake up!"
Poppies- Poppies have many meaning, depending on their color, but poppies in general mean eternal sleep, oblivion, and imagination. It's pretty obvious why I used them in this scene XDD
Black roses- Symbolise death, naturally.
Traveler's Joy- means rest and safety
Apple blossoms- means good fortune and better things to come
Edelweiss- means nobility, daring, and courage
Goldenrod- means success

List of songs that I used, in order of appearance:

Chopin's Nocturne in E-flat Major, Opus 9 no. 2
Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata"
Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain piano version
"On the Nature of Daylight" from the Shutter Island soundtrack (I used it for the poppy field scene, because it really does fit)
Chopin again
__________________
Guy 1: I wasn't that drunk
Guy 2: Dude, you were in my fireplace yelling "Diagon Alley"

█████░░░
█████░░░
▁▁▁▁▁▁░
C/ ▪ |▪|░✧░
██ ◡’ノ░░░
███v█░░░
███ █░░░ This comment reminds me of a puzzle...
----
Dear Edward Cullen,
You sneak into little girls' rooms and you live forever.
How original.
-Peter Pan
----
Reply With Quote
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