| My thoughts from the vibration of her voice gain shape. |
| To my particles, she blows of her solidity. |
| Thus will I sail mine all to the Cape, |
| And mine will meet sweet nought of infinity. |
Lovers, in our age, have no time to time their lovers but notwithstanding this bitter fact, I will post her all the best of my skill. A piece I will leave her, to outshine her covers. One, to make her feel in all good, just one whitty ill. My pen shall be guidance to her or her guidance be my ken. Or for I have failed not to fail, or for in vain I have wailed. Pointed be my sword, slay the falses bereaving the trues. One point to get her to, one to empower all her rues.
| Cape | the place once believed by many to be the place where hopes would come true |
| sweet nought of infinity | useless desire of living together ad infinitum |
| piece | theatrical play |
| whitty | smallest |
| ken | my conscience |
| or ... or ... | either ... or ... |
| bereaving | inhibiting the release of |
| rue | regret, sorrow |
In short, I will write a play in which I, or a fellow player from my class, will act a young boy leaving all he has and setting off for the unknown in the fear of ever getting back to his town. The girl who refused my proposal will act as the key in the plot and eventually lead the boy to get back to his town after years of wandering. As a paladin of the good order, he will see things totally changed and not able to understand where he has come, he will be hired for a quest by the nobles of the town. In search of ending his quest, he will meet his lover who was the sole reason of his escaping the town years ago. Coincidences will situate them against each other and his end will be brought by his ever-feared lover despite the years spent away.
Nomad Soul