Jaen is brought to stain like a martlet to a harlot all for a drunken stupor
How you are like Janus. Emotions are things of little obeisance and an unrequited love can be a most damning thing. How to dull the hurt that is made so sharp against the green whetstone of memory? Everyone carries a cross; I would just rather wear mine on my neck then try to drown it in alcohol. It’s almost amazing how falling out of love can be likened to substance detoxification; you always lose something that you can’t get back. All after a fluster of lacklustre and rouge swooning small residual remembrance is all that is left. Where did they go? The recollection was in the bottle; you drank it all down and lost so much more then just memories. Therein lies all that is you, all that is stupid. Nothing is left behind your eyes to recognize. Do you feel as hollow as they look? Your head a fusion of confusion, you’re on crack and off track, and just because you survive doesn’t mean you’re alive. There you go again shining the ugly sticks, under the influence with nothing under you. Learn to control the feelings that will otherwise control you, otherwise kill you. The devil is Gordian and the Knot is Jaen, she will undo herself.
