The question is how to decide what face we call our own, and who says clothing should ever be written, or be apart of?

We while away our deliberate exchanges under a single demonstrative title: The Story of Love; but why, in the face of sterner melodies should we tell it anyway, and in whose voice to best express the ineffable tale we wag sheepishly back to quiet rooms and glowing monitors?

Sure life used to be simple, but was it good for you too, honey, or did stories lay on their back before you aching for a belly-rub, nipples poking through a sporadic exclamation of wire?

Did they point toward a nearby structure, a desolate field, or straight down at the center (not that I think it matters in the grand scheme of breeding)?

Somehow, we're sure to mean something, to climb or descend.