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Sitting upon an ancient dresser was a flower pot with a flower as golden as the sun planted inside, emitting a fantastic light. But there was something more (or perhaps less) to this flower. It was old, dying, withering, weeping, shedding tears blacker than midnight. The petals hung sadly and the stem bent at a painful angle, and yet it still gave off its harmonic glow at the glorious thought of revival, no matter how foolish the idea.

Suspicion, fear, jealousy, regret, sadness, depression, love, hate, confusion, insanity were the killers of this flower. Slowly sapping its nutrients, drinking the flower's life force, swallowing whole its mystical light, laughing in glee as it wilted more, and more, and still more, but allowing it to live so it could endure even more suffering.

Water dripped on the flower. One drip, two drips, three drips, four. More drops, one by one, until the pot was flooded and the flower was drowning. Then, in an instant, the water was gone and replaced by the scorching heat of Negativity, who took time in devouring the flower's soul bit by bit, piece by piece before stopping abruptly and letting it live another day while the soul healed, only to be torn to shreds day after day, endlessly.

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