What does Cracky mean to me?
dot, dot, dot.
Well, what can I be sure she doesn't mean?
There is no 'she'. Her photos? Oh, the girl herself is a variable irrelevant to the ubiquitous evocations of... of... something... intangible... I don't know.
Starry skies which, in their celestial beauty, present an idyllic view of what life can be whilst foreshadowing the tragedy it is so often doomed to become. O, the darkness. The excruciating darkness. . .
See my queen glance at the sky - her sky - and try to tell me you feel not that crushing sense of loss, that chiding thorn in your side. The dragon. What do you get from the dragon? I see memories, I hear the laughter of children, the nauseating feeling of being at a fairground, the tackiness of giftshops... all set to a backdrop of night - eternal night - and reminding me of my own youthful days. Oh innocence, why must you abandon us all?
Let the light of the lamp-post flicker ceaselessly and without corruption in your mind. And where does she cast her mesmerising glance? To whom or what does she grant the honour of receiving a glint of her luminous eyes? In your mind. In your mind. This is where it rests. May the paths of Bulwarks Lane be ever-accessible in your mind. May this enchanting Oxfordian nocturne play out forever in your mind. The stars have crossed. Your life awaits.
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