But this head has fallen short in trying to show that which is foreign. Every varying contortion of these familiar features shows a raw emotion that has every ability to be real. All of these without fail have been sampled by you, and by me too. And while none bare the badge of the new, they all manifest themselves in a ways previously unseen. Here they are platitude. Eyes becoming infinite wells of sadness can just as easily sparkle with joy. Neither, in your case, is real.

We, the normal, the non-exploitative fail to be so sleek. We show our colors as mere victims of our worn down surroundings. The inner cards our faces betray us by revealing are sincere; they are real. You... You show what you ought not desire to show, but you do it with a majestic malicious intent. The feelings you convey are manufactured to serve a purpose, and in they they find success without fail, every time. Exploitation of such a root part of our mutual composition is almost as sickening as the salt-stained eyes which broke me in times past.

The worry, the love, the hate and the admiration you conjured in me were achieved with your own specific recipe of words seeping so slowly across your soft, creased lips. Knowledge is power, but never power enough to overtake that authentic masquerade you wore. And still now I cannot remain placid knowing all to well what is real, and all to well what pretense.