9 April 2012
Love is a mischievous imp. Its joyous embrace so warm and enchanting, its whisper an echo of a song thought forgotten and its laughter as sweet and invigorating as the first day of spring.
But oh, when it is tired of you... when its wings start to grow weary and its laughter turns to silent contempt; it cares not for you. Its game is played, its blood is warmed with the taste of life you bestowed upon it. It is satisfied. And it is gone.
The Imp • Opuss № I