Centuries of Secrets

As the sun sets over the withering pavilion, faint from the brier’s entwine, the muffled hum of champagne-drenched laughter seeps its way through crumbling stone.  An uninvited breeze bears a sweet, pungent aroma, reminiscent of warm sugar caramelising on the stove.  From silent rooms, murmurs of hysteria chill the air, opposing the haze of a narcotic heaven.  Forbidden love affairs whisper through the hallways and seek shelter in the sullen mist that cloaks the grounds; a safe haven for their weakness.  The practice of the craft, white and black, ritual and ceremony, poetic and depraved, their memoirs etched into the fabric in which they were performed.  Births of those intended and those that were not, their lives and deaths, the shadows of their existence still creep through the halls of the upper east wing.

And in the darkest hours, the mortal cries of creative madness eagerly tap on the attic window.

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