When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
In the world of imagination, all things belong.
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In the world of imagination, all things belong.
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I think sometimes when we find love we pretend it away, or ignore it, or tell ourselves we__e imagining it. Because it is the most painful kind of hope there is.
Art is an imagination, crafted over innocent dreams and vibrant integrity.
It is through imagination that we transcend understanding and travel into the world of possibilities.