The aphorism is revealed, reclusive and revered by the irony.

I seen her guilt and strife before I engaged her, that's why strides where greater.

It was me who compromised, assuming that my pensive rhetoric would loose her from her delirious tendencies. And awaken her, unveil herself too me.

The frolic of her actions and careless disposition is my wit's end, I abhor as the devil abhors benevolence.

Can she not see the similitude I offer that is propagated by my angelic chorus of, "I give a damn ×2"?

It's is as, if trying to pry a nail from a floorboard with no light and no hammer. It soon becomes the question of concern when I see the situation, and find that avoiding the surrealism and accepting her haphazard explanation is a demise.

Do I care for her? Do I love anyone? Will my solitude fulfill what others disdain?