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[Mood: Pained in Agony with a hint of cynicism and skepticism]

Just as Narcissus and Echo . . .

The hopeful lover who vainly cries out only to repeat after its desire, while the desire is focused upon its mirrored self. Such a tragedy and curse as the lover is doomed to repeat and withers away, while the desire shall never reach what is reflected as itself and, too, pines away to die . . .

Both are cruel in their former lives before their meeting, one still was, but this is no happy ending (From the way I see it). If they had only considered it, it would have become something else entirely. A different moral, a different ending, a different work of literature. A Greek Myth teaches . . . but it, too, can be ignored. "My heart was yours to fill or burst. To break or bury."

A heart that was filled with hope and it knew . . . it knew. It knew of the dreams, the fantasies, the desires, the passion, even the pain. It knew so much, so much. It still is that ever hopeful fool, like a stubborn old dog to its master. Or that b*****d who can't seem to be forgotten nor despised, or the dork who found the meaning in more than just the numbers, facts, and reason. Forever obedient . . . just waiting. Waiting for that spark of hope, that light of warmth, the pull to need . . . "You have stolen my heart . . ."

Patiently, perhaps like a wizened child, with bright eager eyes . . . it waits. It sits alone in the glow of the dark, straining through the illuminated for the darkness of light; its painful to perception, jitters the teeth, numbs touch, stills breath, rattles the bones, wanes cognition . . . And in that period of infliction and self-centered aggravation, it laughs jokingly, smiles in awe, expressions of wholeheartedness, yet speaks unintelligibly, bleeds profusely, decaying in a shell of its own void . . . All it says is what it felt, quieter than the silence itself, but there it is though hushed . . . It does yearn for that tug, that pull, the push, the freedom. That child is perhaps the most miraculous and beauteous form of metaphors (Compared to . . . ), brazenly stubborn against fate. Its own heart corrupted, not with malice, but with the purest of pure hope. For it knew . . . "That you meant it, you meant it . . ."

Given enough it would have overflowed through the silvery shine of heavenly stars, concealing the innermost wicked form of adoration. The raspy shrieks of tortured pleasures, echo through a solidified vision of the voices of Legion. All the while, the shivering black frost is blown, windswept, burning the ends of nerves consoling a plagued aftermath of blight. Speak! Speak through the viscid fluid of boiled iron upon the scalded glossa as it inhaled and fumigates through the perforated alveolus . . . Proven through predilection, this radiation of madness still, and will, render thine paramour from thine inamorata . . .