kirameki87

There once was a girl known as "the storyteller" to everyone but herself. She wrote and wrote, told story after story, but each word ended up on a shelf. She wrote stories and riddles, nonsense and rhymes, But criticized all her works many a time. "It makes no sense!" she cried, "It all looks wrong!" "The setting's not set, and the intro's too long!" But everyone else marveled at the works that she made In the light of her versions, the originals would fade. The storyteller's stories were one of a kind, Not quite status quo, but no one would mind. Her words flowed like rivers, each plot line unique She wove her stories threaded with mystique.