[[In the house of honesty, Her father was on trial, In the house of mystery, There was no one at all, There was no one at all.]]
heart-touching, with a great song ❤ ❤



To the best of her knowledge Maurelle was French. At least in this dreary realm that was her chosen persona. The bilingual from birth or those unveiled for the sake of reasoning are more often than not puzzled, unsure of their pedigree. Besides, French after all is the language of love and that of those not sharing common tongue.

Seeing nothing extraordinary on the far side of blue skies and starry nights she had never been moved by the idea of kneeling. As such Maurelle found Sunday mornings to be mind-numbingly uninspiring. Wicked over pious by volition any day of any week suited her. Not so much a choice, more an elementary state of being.

In the company of the barking mad, looking up toward the barren heavens solved nothing. It never had. The impotence and self-indulgence of prayer airmailed to the nothingness irked her even more than bells and…

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