Keep reminding yourself that you're Belphegor. Love between humans ain't nothing but a comedy reel as one or the other pretends to endlessly squeal in joy or pain. Laying claim upon a bed of nails that their hearts supposedly sail above a pastor's pasture. Sheep led to the slaughter, I'll assume the role as a bear consumed by the honey pot, never bothering to coddle those around me as my heart returns to stone. And as such... Welcome to my throne.

Melancholy, morose, and lugubrious. You're curious to know why my sober thoughts only show face when I'm INTOXicated.

I guess I should be satisfied that you still haunt me in my absinthe dreams. But I'm starting to wonder if I'm only seeing your face at the bottom of the bottle.