From all the ashes of all the crashes

Patrick Wolf. And drawing after such a long time, feels weird but in a good way, like everything I'm not able and/or willing to say could be expressed with a few pencil-drawn lines so easily. I like the shimmering grayish black of the pencil, more than any markers or brush lines. Music and drawing, they seem to connect with each other and make an ideal world where all your emotions are alive and all your memories are drowned in a cold gray sea, waving and bursting and hissing and you can listen carefully to them all day long. Laying on the silver sand, with the birds above you, flying high in the sky. And as I'm listening and watching and breathing, the drawing's beginning to look like an ilustration of some sad children's book, which is strange because honestly, what was the last time you've read an unhappy children's book? It's such a pity. Those books, at least some of them for sure, should be sad for there are just few things more beautiful than sad children's story. Because the scene I've just described couldn't be in any adults' book. The sadness is just too clear and the sea is too bright, the feelings are too intense and you can't put these to any other tale than kids'. Sunset's coming, the air around's getting colder, stars are slowly showing up, tears like crystals and pain like eternity. I wish for the universe to let me here lie forever.