Ever since I can remember I been poppin' my collar.

I had my balls chopped off last night. Hacked right at the base and tossed to the ground, and then they spit in my face. There was insult, on top of injury, on top of insult. This is what we do for love. I took the high road, which isn't as glamorous as it sounds. The ground is made of muck and horse shit, there is trash strewn along the sides, it rises and falls mindlessly, and it's hard to find an inn with vacancy to rest weary feet. But hopefully, if there is justice to the world, I'll crawl out the other end of this miniature parkway of Satan to find a friend I'd thought I'd lost. This is what we do for love.

I believe in pureness, this may be my first mistake, the original sin as it were. I want passion and love to power every action and impulse and when they don't I can feel the cool colors that cross my face, the subtle dark highlights. As if I were to wear my sunglasses at night, there is enough darkness already, so adding to it only makes the world more bleak. There isn't any color in darkness, we first need to find the light.