staple a gun to your heart and call on the sun to melt the silver pieces into one, what i'm trying to say is put yourself back together and let the warmth radiate from your body like it used to, once i saw flowers pouring out your ribcages, now i see icicles freezing over your eyes but don't lose colour in your paints because at least when your brush hits the surface it carries something more than a gunning fresh start and less than a silver burden