we realize that we will never be the prettiest in the room, that fairy tales are rarely true, that life is fleeting past us soon. our painted faces only save us from ourselves another night, when evening embers justify what day declares a ghastly sight.
foreign creatures pine for something fitting a disfigured mold. plastic dreamlike centerfolds. we're only doing what we're told. we pick and pluck and tweek and fix the greatest most unique of parts, until improvement shows its start, we're slowly crumbling our own hearts.
what led us here? can we retrace? or are we doomed a dying race?
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