The boy: fierce, needing, burdened, insane. Like madness with a bane, he strides for the fight, he's a reacher, grabbing and tearing for the covetous findings of this wayward obelisk.
There is no love but for the girl.
The girl: small, slick in word and serene in post, she forces herself into your skull, with a greeting she'll take you from your home and into a world of sick fascination. There is not escape, eyes black, the resonance of which escape her mouth to find, target, convince, and destroy their opposable victims. There is no love but for the boy.
The third eye: ever-knowing and affecting. He is where it is and where the goat takes its fur. With the mouth of a shaman, the skill of a sentinel, and the skin of the deepest earth, he dashes into it all, he stops it, he starts it, and it never resides with him because he. Is. What. We. Love/Hate in our aspirations and our fantasies. There is no love but for the others.
Me: There is no love but for myself.
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