“Originality was fostered as an ideal to denigrate the achievements of practiced imitation,” Edward proclaimed one night when drunk. “Talk about moving, won’t you take me to spaces in between the nights, the expanse of change, the wide arrayed passing looming across the horizon, knowing the past moves forward, catching.” That’s when the love comes tumbling down. His dreams shifted by time and space, ideas he held had lost their appeal. “She compromised my principles.” Changes bearing down from the distance, the light in her eyes turned into a knife. The fire reflected in the polished steel, tearing her way into his simplicity.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs