If you could observe the painter's artistry with perfect clarity, you would understand how much faded resentment lies scattered there, wearing masks of color, disheveled. Never arranged, you know? Just like that... can't you remember? Come now, don't you have that well-ordered, neat stage of enchantment? Where you deceived me every time with your ever-new lies, those glittering betrayals disguised as love... Does it come back to you now? Yes, exactly like that! Just like that... these faded resentments could never quite be tidied away! How helpless this resentment is, isn't it? You never understood it either! Tell me, how do people live without dreams? How do the dark-moon nights pass with such resentment? Doesn't the world's beauty turn to poison then, in those venomous eyes? Doesn't the very air become suffocating? Doesn't it? It does for me... does it never for you?
The Nights of the Dark Fortnight
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