There’s not much room for love in that heart of yours is there, when it’s so bloated with the vexing ideals of your righteousness, how your infallible sense of ethics never seem to fail, because those you berate are apparently much less flawed than you, because nothing could ever surpass your undeniable concrete ways of living, of cheating your way past the humbled offenders and of slaying the reputations of the beggars you are secretly afraid of, because no one else can take your throne, your castle of fool’s gold, of the perplexed concept of conquering, when you have a series of ogled praises to relieve you of your possible guilt, when really, all there is, is a vulgar mass of unresolved naïveté, childish nonsense that will always be worn on you like an invaluable, jeweled crown of royalty.