They say we only fall in love once every seven years, she whispered. In that case, I think I wasted seven years of my life on you. And if I could, I'd probably waste seven more. Believe, believe in the hollowness of time. Tomorrow shall never be freed from yesterday. Our battered ship sails to where sunsets are fabricated. The master painter takes pride in his array of reds.

Sometimes you have to reach the bottom before you can rise to
the surface; sometimes you ought to die in order to be reborn; sometimes you must let it all go, so that something new may
come along. The world keeps turning, tears dry before they reach
the ground, wounds heal so that fresh ones can take their place.
Blood on the pavement is only chocolate.

It must be hard, to weep for the futility of happiness; it must be strange, to laugh in the face of your own sorrow; it must be heartbreaking, to cheat on your god with other gods. You insist on feeding your most sacred ideals to the shaggy dogs of cynicism, whilst humming the merciless tune of fully-conscious betrayal.

Does guilt ever lead to redemption? Could regret serve to ease the suffering of our victims? Can shame lighten the weight of our crimes? I doubt it.