Art is a peculiar thing, original; priceless. Irreplaceable, and once stolen, forever gone. Nothing’s quite felt like home since you, nothing’s just quite right, not since I opened the door and you walked right out. Absolutely necessary at the time, but now I miss you; I miss you like a hot coffee of a morning during a global coffee shortage. Withdrawal, albeit much too long after the fact. Delayed onset, periodic, LD50 of about 4 years; dead inside. Nothing has ever compared to you; I’m afraid nothing can compare to you.
I love you.
changing self 