She was his Van Gogh sunflower; in between the mess of thoughts and deep depression, she bloomed out of nowhere. She was an embodiment of beauty whose charm would be envied by Erato, her eyes with fine, thread-like vessels fractalizing to frenetically magnetize towards her. She was a metaphor for metaphysical, mythical tenderness. Her incorporeal pheromones pulverized his sainthood to become Lucifer. Her warmth made time surreal and bent the lasers to penetrate his heart. She was unpredictable, and her love was like a Schrödinger's cat, meowing now and then. What would he do rather than bleed silently and whimper viciously without a voice of his own? Every moment nags at his thoughts with an unexpressed love and an unpredictable end
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