Forgive me for being honest / Allow me to be frank
It is dull, but not rusty. The ridges seem so elementary yet chaste, the corners are not yet full. They seem awkward and disconnected instead, like the present state of mind/mine (But it'll do.) How wonderful it is though, to know that Inside is an ocean and a vacuum at the same time.
As far as I'm concerned, Lonely Hearts (like DPT) is a love story however sordid/morose/trite. Morals aside, one cannot deny the fact that the underlying seam to the fabric of the narrative is Love. Sure, people died. (But people die everyday.) And the way I see it, Death and Love are no different. Both an interchangeable metaphor of each other, a symbol, a signifier and sign(ified). Each a display of passions, the former being the End/end to all things; depending on the intensity and perhaps, purposefulness of which. There is no room for pity (for victim or offender), Pity is for the condescending. It was but a moment of silent acquiescence- it was the way things were because it is the way things are. As if the underlying seam had two colours, Cranberry and Black, weaving surreptitiously in accordance to Whatever. The nobler of the two would be the possibility of possibilities entailed in either. Beneath every passion, there is reason. To merely view it as it were, would be, in an Althusserian sense, highly problematic. I don't think it is possible to disregard the lapses and distortions especially since it seemed as if the fabric were punctuated by non-sequiturs either in speech or action. I do like this particular representation very much though.
"O, I have suffered / With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel / Who had, no doubt / some noble creature in her / Dash'd all to pieces."
-Miranda, Act I Sc II, The Tempest, William Shakespeare