劍之舞

It was a Sunday which you could've smelled it out after you broke the french window of your owns. I was awake from a deep sleep, which I rarely indulged myself into, where the lazy abyssal lies. I, you've known, as each other Sunday, had to ride to work, therefore I woke from the brave new world, didn't I. I'd been feeling sad about that Sunday till I've done the dishes in the kitchen of that company, which you could call that a break-time-room even I'd never feel a briefly mentally break till I typed these down. I turned on my poor amplifiers to offering some inspiring music to stimulate my spirit to fight for those works I'd been leaving for a period which as long as the period any of hers could've passed two or more menstrual badness to me, the one always suffers from all of those.

And so, that was Iron Maiden's Live in Rio in 2002. I am here to confess. I was extremely expecting The Trooper which can recall the memory of the time I've read The Noble Six Hundred when I was in the college and dreaming about the future with sort of literally educated pathetic mind which is, until now, an unprepared and inefficient one. For somehow a reason, which was concealed by my insidious thought indicating my new lovely fierce kitty represented that woman who can chant, paint, design or any talent that pass through your mind, I pulled some Ardbeg Whiskey into that cognac glass with sadness which I don't have any pure glass for embracing the peatiness Ardbeg has, and I was drinking it when Bruce Dickinson sang.

It has been a Sunday, no more when the sun set.
Then I drank up the Ardbeg, for longer the peatiness in my mouth be laid.
I looked back into the few days past, and saw her with that rainbow fade,
You lead my step, from the past to be presented.

Now that is The Trooper. Please take my life so that I could take yours, too