Blank Doll sits down and sleeps.

You asked me what I thought was love. Well, I gave it some thought.

Love is not the lovers' embrace haloed by the soft, white glow of dawn. It is the grip of the rusted vice and the lash of the silken night.

Love is not the forever afters. It is the instant of fear, the crystallisation of age, dread and mortality that settles on your skin when death comes.

Love is not the quiet walk through the park with the little children running around and the dalmatian leaping ahead. It is the violent rape in the anonymity of the savage forest with naught a single person and the last thing you see before the pain consumes you is the floating sliver of a dandylion.

Love is not the fragility of a chin held between tender fingers. It is the aftermath when the hand closes tight and blood tints unwilling lips a dark rouge, when that inner bestiality that is more human than bestial takes over and love yields to lust.

Love is not the sweet warmth of breakfast the day and the gentle whistling coming from the kitchen. It is the hangover in the afternoon, breakfast at the lobby with more champagne than eggs and nothing spoken of the night before.

Love is not. It just isn't.

C'est tout.