Three stars upon her forehead, and the discovery of adult literature as she hides in the undergrowth. Piano music to drive away monsters lurking in early morning sorrow. Addiction, sometimes chemical, sometimes creation. Growing a beard to summon past ghosts, only to shave it off while bored and lacking in emotion. Nothing touches me apart from the light of my own reflection- the sight of my own, dead passive gaze. She applies her lipstick with one hand on her hips. She makes herself pretty despite the horrors that lurk on her doorstep. Acts of Apostles, and dancing lovers that glide across the world as if nothing even mattered. Little makes sense, and as my fingers type so readily, there’s always regret to bring it back home. Car crashes, cancer, and crumbling pillars of faith. I’m not heartbroken, just bemused. There’s still romance in me, though. The tides change and seasons fall, yet my hands are capable of something more. At least, I think they are. Distorted memories and the passion of an artist wrapped up only in himself. If looks could kill, I’d be dead a million times over. If thoughts could destroy, I’d be in tiny pieces scattered across the icy moons of Pluto. Forests and sand while eating junk food in the park. Everything hurts, yet it makes me feel at one with the God I seek so desperately. Sway beneath falling chandeliers, and hold me tight. Link your fingers with mine, and let us drift elsewhere.