My tears never tasted so good, when, for the first time, I took a breath of tomorrow's air. The quietus of my morning and the beginning of my night has denied me another day. I am dead when my motication leaves me, and I am buried when my inspiration flies away. Never once been seen, just left for a place that can hide me. My only crime is searcing for what we all want. And for this, everday I am punished. The tears you have caused me blurr my vision, but my obsequious nature brings me to your feet. Must our reason for death justify our reason for living?

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