You and I, my dear, you and I.
How tragic such situations have become.
How tragic indeed.
For I was merely a photograph, among a collection of millions.
Yet still, you found me.
But what use is being found when being fond is something you can't be.
Though it seems, to me, that I might just be your fondest.
I might just be all that you have dreamt of, that I might.
This chase, though, is most tragic of all.
And if my heart could be strung along another meter, its noose would hang from everything you fail to admit.

For these are the imprints of the first to bare witness.
The markings upon the virginal blanket of natural artistry.
So silently does the artist work, silently enough for one to only ever notice his finished masterpiece through curiosity of life outside ones reclusive four walls.
What genius graces ones eyes, what brilliance, what intricacy and intensity one instantly becomes acquainted with.
The irony of produce subject to negative temperature, that could warm even a dead mans heart, is enough fact to say that such magnificence should be embraced and adored with all of ones ability to do so.
Disregard all cliched connotations, for this is merely an appreciation in its simplest of forms.