• I tis the moth who thinks it tis a butterfly. Is it for the wrong I have committed unconsciously, or those that I have yet to take part in? Or perhaps it is the good tried to do that has led to destruction. What I used to be is gone, the favoritism stolen way by my own flesh and blood. I am a night without stars, a day without sun, a river without water, a forest without trees. Tis it you who shall fill in this gap, or a friend with which to patch it? Or shall you cast me away, as though nothing? This truth is what turns me to suicide, though this life is what has kept me here, in this life that is truly half, so that I may speak with you. The love first found is a game that, if survived, rewards you with the purest of all things. True Love. But that I have not, nor anything else. I am the living definition, of a lone wolf.