In 100 years from now, somewhere on the new earth, there will be a man reading about me in a history section of the skynet.
And thats not because I never lost.
But instead because I always tried.
I disagree
Lust sees clearly, a lens without fog,
honest in its fleeting hunger.
love is the blind one.
It paints halos where there are none,
wraps flaws in silk.
Lust opens its eyes wide
and admits, this is only now.
Love closes its eyes tight
and swears … this is forever.