Beneath the shadows of doubt, through the coldness of your skin, i wonder if their lies a heartbeat that is heard by anyone but yourself. selfishness is a disease, with no cure but reality. but i wonder if reality really ever kicks it. ya know. makes the disease crawl from the depths of your veins, out the skin that shelters it. it's so cold to the touch, how it incubates anything but dead cells, i'm not sure. nevermind that though. because i'm fully convinced it's incurable. so then how do we maintain it; keep it from growing. shrink it in a sense. i would really like to know what your skin feels like warm - with a bit of color. you'd be suprised how much more you can feel. sensations are unbearable; rich beneath blood that flows with something other than yourself. i wish i could give that to you. it would be my gift and your tragedy. but you'd live. and we'd survive.