Death of a muse
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
African (General) British (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
death of a muse Death. Such a solemn phenomena by this one I relished Call me sheepish an enormous parish I love to watch Parish. My muse is dead and in its place, replaced amuse with no views. An enormous parish I loved to watch Perish the parish of hunting huts I called it. There was no other name for it. Each word served a purpose. It was big enough to accommodate any heart seeking a breaking my old muse was a heart break. I love to feel the pain gushing about roaming wild through my mind, swapping even wild thoughts of absurdity. I loved to be in that abyss, to be able to contain myself, to teach myself what it means to heart without being hot without showing a flinch of pain. But in my isolation conception of what that spoke of me more than my face could show. My muse was a heartbreak. She loved the pain. She could not come close to mind, though her duty was to inflict mine to ingest. She might not have loved the pain. I always thought she did love to see me in pain. My heart was passed, the cinematics. It's such for more toughening. She might have loved the pain, but my radar of pain could only be such beneath the ocean flows. I allowed myself to run uphill, slow and fast, sometimes trotting other times walking, never crawling. I had to reach the climax. I had to reach it fast. I allowed myself the view, the panorama of every glorious speck of pain through the parish of hunting huts. I could see myself hut without getting hot and I loved it. I allowed myself to roll, gathering as much moss as hand hat and spirit could carry gathering every glorious second head smashing on rocks multiple times. Well, until I could bear get more and leave nothing behind. I wanted to be invincible to pain. My muse is dead and in its place replaced um use with no views This muse with no fuse like me She longs for the ocean floors. She longed for them deeper than I. She allowed herself the pain. She allowed herself to sacrifice, suffer and let others keep their happy silence for violence. Love for negligence. She came with no views, turned my search for flows 21 for skies. She killed my old muse and in her place, replaced. I will allow myself the ascension again. I will run up the hill, slow and fast, sometimes trotting, other times walking, never crawling. I have to see the climax gets higher and bathed in a plethora of a different parish with a different name.