The Tragic Muse
She moves through the room, flowing, like a sweet and fragrant wine. The sight of her makes me drunk with passion. I lose control of my senses. I lose control of my words.
It is then, and only then, when my mind is away from my work, that someone dies. The characters take control of their own lives. They fight, and they kill, or they waste away from some ethereal sickness or depsair. I do not do these things. They do it to themselves, when I am not looking. They do it when she is near.
It is not her fault that she is destructively beautiful, that she kills with the merest glance in my direction. She isn't even aware that she's doing int.
All my traged stems from her beauty.
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