And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
Perhaps you have seen me lurking in the shadows, a silent observer to the events. or maybe I have passed you by in the street, a face you vaguely recognize but cannot quite place.
I am not the protagonist of this tale, nor am I the antagonist that drives the plot forward. No, my role is more subtle, more nuanced. I am the side character, the one who exists in the background, whose story was never told.
There is an old British man who instructs me in the art of oil painting, a person who I adore. His exceptional talent is awe-inspiring, and his mellifluous voice has a soothing effect. Moreover, his taste of music for the class is impeccable. He's who I want to be.
I resemble the haunting melodies of Dark Moor's songs, My essence akin to Oscar Wilde's exquisite prose, And my visage, a canvas painted by Nicola Samori.