I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain. And he wakes up, drives to work, and then straight back home again. He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper. I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me. Your eyes are poor. You're blind. You see, no beauty could have come from me. I'm a waste of breath, of space, of time."

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues. Until one day, she found out that he had lied and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened. And she was anxious for all that would come next. But then she wept. What did you expect? In that big, old house with the cars she kept. "And such is life," she often said.

With one day leading to the next, you get a little closer to your death, which was fine with her. She never got upset and with all the days she may have left, she would never clean another mess or fold his shirts or look her best. She was free to waste away alone.