What is love, but torment with value?

Life... drains with every footstep, pulling you deeper and deeper until you have lost all sense and there is nothing left but a vacant, cold shell.

Smoke plumes high into the sky, twisting and swirling beautifully, whispering soft murmurs of what is, what isn't, what could have been, and what could never be.

Grass brown, water grey, the wind carries in its currents the sweet lies of the past and the hideous truths of the future, bringing ultimate melancholy onto whomever hears its sound.

Flames do not burn, waters do not flow, nothing moves a single muscle.

For if not for the eternal mystery of love and life, then what reason have we to live and thrive?

What is death, but the absence of love and life?

What is life, but the yearning for love and the inevitable eternal slumber of death?

What is... love...?

What is... life...?

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