Melting flesh on falling reasoning arms, meant for comfort, reaching out to the passers of strangers to collect and unobtainable amount of apathy. The ascending sympathy is merely a facade for the souls right to sleep at night. They are the victim of sorrow, serving it on shiny sliver platters. The meal of our life that fills our innards with chills and nights of tossing.
Wrapped as we are in our emotions’ for the less. Wrapped in our minds are we for those who are mutilated. Wrapped we are in all others.