The idealist who lived here died, at least in part.
The clocks struck twelve. The fairy tale is over. Don't waste any more time here, there is no beauty to be had.
Dogs don't smile anymore. The coffee has turned cold and bitter. Trees stand still, no dance in their sway. That gentle breeze has blown itself out, taking with it the candlelight and the scent of the rose. The sea is still inviting, but consumptively so. The shiny young leaf has long become a relic, drained and dry.
Flap Flap! Hope flees at lightning speed. Ouch! Memories have razor edges. Swoon! Patience takes the plunge over the brink.
Well, I told you so. The idealist who lived here died. Come, join this dirge... Come, help gather these pitiful remains...
