it was the twelfth of october when I first formulated the theory that the world was composed of lines. tangible lines and invisible lines and every other kind of line that lies in between the two. the invisible line that seperates you and I from each other in your bed, two bodies and two heads and one line drawn thin between our skin. the lines around the outside of your eyelids and the scar on your jaw from when you were a kid. its a childhood landmark that parked itself on your face as if to try and keep it's place in the space time continuum of tragedy. the world is composed of lines in ways that everyone who's never seen the inside of your chest will never even know about. the wrinkles in your shirt and the creases on your palms are where I call home and your heart beat is my metronome and I swear I've never known anything greater than the line that's sewn your heart to my own.