An ornate and gold-edged book, of which inside are secrets even she doesn't know or understand. But tucked all through it are leaflets of paper, as if she'd rather not write in the book its self. Except on the first empty page of the book is written in exquisite, flowing penmanship her full name. ~ Lavender Cecelia Morgan.
Saturday, 29 August 2020
Why does it not surprise me that I would mess up my own life so much. It makes little difference now, I lost so much due to my own foolishness. I honestly wonder if I know any difference then to mess things up for myself, or if I can even tell the difference between what is good and right and what isn't. Perhaps things are how they are suppose to be anyway.
