Every day, I imagine a future where I can be with you In my hand is a pen that will write a poem of me and you
The ink flows down into a dark puddle
Just move your hand, write the way into his heart
But in this world of infinite choices
What will it take just to find that special day
What will it take just to find that special day
Have I found everybody a fun assignment to do today
When you're here, everything that we do is fun for them anyway
When I can't even read my own feelings
What good are words when a smile says it all
And if this world won't write me an ending
What will it take just for me to have it all
Does my pen only write bitter words for those who are dear to me
Is it love if I take you, or is it love if I set you free
The ink flows down into a dark puddle
How can I write love into reality?
If I can't hear the sound of your heartbeat
What do you call love in your reality
And in your reality, if I don't know how to love you
I'll leave you be

c. landscape orientation

horror and alarm

this is shown in the exserp then he beat at the door and called, but none responded, and for wrath he could have dashed the door down, but it was too stout, and he had no weapon; for his arms had been taken from him.when it was dark, suddenly it seemed to sir lancelot that the room smelled foul, as if he had been carried into the midst of the quaking marsh, and was sunk deep in the slime and weeds of a pool. then, through the arrow-slit, he saw many strange lights come, dim and blue like the wild lights that dance and flit over the lonely marshes by night; but that which made him   marvel was that these lights were two together, as if they were the eyes of evil things. and they came up to him with a breath that was cold and dank, and they seemed to peer into his face, but he could see naught of their bodies. the hair upon his head rose, and his skin went cold. they pressed all about him, and to defend himself he struck at the eyes, but his blows beat only the air. then suddenly sir lancelot felt sharp pains, as if small keen knives had been thrust into his flesh at many places. the stabs increased in number and in pain, and sir lancelot beat about himself and ran to and fro in the narrow chamber to escape   the evil eyes and the stabs, but it was in vain, and thus all night in much misery he suffered. when for sheer weariness he lay down and tried to close his eyes, the evil things would not let him, but ever they tore at him and stabbed him.

the answer is b. false. a fugue is a traditional form of a composition in where a part would enter after the other and uses the same theme. the music would then grow constantly in size as well as in intensity.