We were simply written into the script as characters decidedly inciting some rift.
Protagonizing antagonizing.
Fictitious sightseeing, so frightening what it might mean.
But I want beauty to believe that I can be a better sight to see.
That I can shape saunter from a walk.
And I can grace the senses with a soft unassuming touch that, hitherto, has never seen the light of darkened rooms.
I have crowned her name, I have cursed it too.
I have held it high as a basic truth.

But, who are you? Beauty, we need to see. Who are you?

Still I act as if I have chance.
Relenting or abiding when I can.
But, Beauty, hark that I want nothing more than to fall right back into your arms.
You can sing me pretty lullabies, how everything that matters is in your eyes.
We're passing the massive-destruction-panic.
Didn't it stop dead in its tracks to vanish?
Didn't it mimic the boredom before it?
Calling into question the method of boredom.
Victory Vanity.
I believe everything that Victory says to me.
Oh, mirror, oh, mirror on the wall.
Is all the beauty behind the wall?

But, who are you? Beauty, we need to see. Who are you? Beauty is you. See now?