Why must I be in love? It isn't new, or exciting, and it won't change me into the person that I've always wanted to be, subtle and fresh and practical and of course, new and exciting. It will make me hover, and sit in my minimalistic room, playing ballads and writing sensual poetry and being the kind of person that I least want to be. Condradictive, perhaps ironic. Why do we need love, huh? What does it do? Make us weepy and sentimental. Leave us clasping his shirt in our hands, smelling a fragrance that is probably cheap and uninspiring, but that envelops us...simply because it recreates him before us. We play a humming piano adagio and imagine him caressing our neck with dewy kisses, and write this kind of emotionally twisted, bitter and hostile prose to capture some kind of love, unrequited or as deep as our own- and we think, Love-pah, who needs it. And continue to let our pen walk across the paper.