to him, muses were his everything. she was his muse. she was his everything. he was a seemingly emotionless person until he saw her.
the memory was still fresh in his mind. a smalltown boy, who was closed off to everyone, spotting an imperfectly perfect girl walking on the other side of the path.
he spent long hours and nights painting and drawing his wishful story, the story of a faraway love which was so powerful it could bind the stars themselves.
with every chance he had, he would stand on the path she would walk on everyday, going to places unknown to him.
she was simple, but to him, she was an unreal figure, a person he could not describe with words and be true to his heart. to him, she was just an ethereal figure, to only look, to never touch, and to never disturb. she was just his muse, but she was still his everything.
