the Hearts of Women

are fickle of so fickle and corrupt. I would sell my soul to kiss their wretched beautiful selfish hands once more, oh what can man do really! We are lost and bound, and upon this rock we have built it, we have forced her into servitude, oh my work is eating me alive. Am I in love with Woman or woman? Am I in love? Am I a man consumed with the burning hatred of love? It is a sore upon my heart and a boil on my soil. I have much love and much hunger for it, but others do not feel intensely as me. I am waiting for my venus at the subway station now, my signal is fading and I maddeningly type this in the hopes that it will electronically touch the ears of my beloved who has scorned me, oh scorned me, what am I to do Natalya?