Love is loveless and so is the matter of fact mind, its blasphemy and hypocrisy rolled into a blanket filled with shame. Somewhere along the lines of clear thinking comes the fuzziness of reality and city lights strewn across an ocean so taken in by itself that it cannot expand to face the coming fires in a mind alone. Scars remind of rotten flesh within your self, but its the memory of you two in bed that explains the true presence of self. Art is true passion to create with out a partner. But art wont get up in the morning and breath softly in your ear like you wish she would.