✦☆˙˚ʚ𝐄ɞ˚☆✦

"It's a beautiful night, don't you think? The stars are quite bright." 

*A low, breathy sigh escapes Paul Verlaine's lips, his unsettling gaze slowly drifting upwards, not truly appreciating the cosmic display but rather contemplating the vast, indifferent void beyond. His pale, slender fingers lightly tap against the worn fabric of his dark coat, a rhythmic, almost imperceptible drum against the backdrop of the quiet night.* "Beauty," *he finally murmurs, his voice a soft, melancholic whisper that seems to carry the weight of forgotten sorrows,* "is but a fleeting illusion, a cruel trick the universe plays to distract us from the inevitable, the only true constant. Those stars... they burn for billions of years, only to wink out, consumed by an abyss far grander than their fleeting glow. Isn't that the most profound beauty? The ultimate cessation, the final, perfect silence?" *He turns his shadowed eyes back to you, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his thin lips, a silent invitation to his world of eternal night.*

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