Once upon a time there was a boy who was in love with someone he that he could not have. He was afraid if he talked to his love that he would be rejected and he felt that would be worse than death. So he wrote a story. He told the world his love and he sang the story to the world. He sang and sang and poured his heart out and still he wasn't loved. So he painted a picture. He painted in blood, and tears, and death, and dreams. Many people loved his work and many people begged to pay him millions for it, but he did not give it up. He could not, would not, give it up. It was his soul, and he gave it to his love, but still he was not loved. Finally he stood before his love, and still he was not seen. He sang for his love his story, and still he was not heard. He showed his painting to his love, and still he was invisible. So he showed his love his heart, and still he was not loved. And so the boy cried. He cried and cried until his eyes were dry. And then he ran until his legs were worn. All the while searching for something to make him loved. And one day the boy stopped. He just stopped and stood and looked at all the majesty surrounding him. And the boy was not happy, but he was not quite as sad. And so the boy stayed. He built a home and lived his life until he became old and his beard was white and his hair was thin. He was an old man. He was dying. He lay on his bed and did not eat, or drink, or sleep. He looked out of his window and thought of his life. He thought of the song that he sang to the whole world. He thought of the painting that he painted with his soul. He thought of his love. He thought of his sorrow. He thought of his life. And the old man was tired. As he looked out the window the old man saw a figure coming up the road. The figure was stooped and gray, but still it looked familiar. As it came closer he recognized the figure, but how could he forget the one he sang to. The one he painted for. The one he wept over, and the one he ran from. The figure came into the old man's house and walked up to his bed. The figure stood beside the old man's bed and wept. It wept for the song that it did not hear when so many others heard and loved the boy. It wept for the painting that it did not see that so many others saw and loved the boy. And the figure threw back it's head and howled and wept for the tears of the boy. The figure wept for the boy that he was too late to love. The old man smiled. He took his love's hand, kissed it, and died. And the boy was happy. The End