Spare me your tragedy and look upon others. See the burning light that they hold to, their lives. They sing it sweet songs in hopes of maintaining it's horrible beauty. For beauty is a force to be fed and not harvested. No more than a gesture can let it free, nor let it stay entrapped. Nothing more than a wish can whisk it's fancy so far from its purpose. Never to understand what it was meant to be. So spare me the crimson story of your heart and let yourself depart from fantasy. We are all real here.