A Midnight tale

He loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, she loves me not, she loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, she loves me not

A stupid young sweetheart’s ritual. It never occurs to you that the love trip is flawed. Each flower has its own number of petals and every time you ask, ‘which one will it be’ you hope it will bring you to the one you want. You never land on the same answer.

Just look at the {flower}. The entire thing. Beautiful? Well it was till you asked the question. Now it’s sits in your hand, broken from its foundation without personality, without it’s beauty. It’s cold, frail, brittle, done.

(A little something from the ‘artist’s book’.)

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