We should trade our scars, my friend, so you can see what the broken sees. The roman statues crumbling and dark alleyways coated in the rust of a million hearts. It is empty, but there is a solemn beauty in what you cannot see. Rather, the sound of your voice may put me to sleep far better than the aching of your eyes. I must say, though, I find myself staring at your lips far too often. I invite you to the velvet city, where our teeth are stained red with wine and nowhere is the deceitful hand we named fate, but a masquerade party of murderers and poets.

We never quite know the difference, you see. For murderers and poets walk a thin line, and to be murdered with words is a common occurence. There is only beauty where you want to see it, my friend. Maybe my words are like knives and with every sentence I speak your skin begins to crack, but if you trade your scars for mine, you'll find they rip up all the old wounds again. I shall not ask you to wear my shoes or walk a day in my cap, for trading scars for scars is the greatest trust and the greatest tragedy.

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