It’s not the fault of the lines but what could it be then. And it’s not the fault of the light either, I wonder. Sometimes you do your best but it still seems laid, poorly I imagine. There’s so much out there that cannot be contained in words, deeds or attributes nonetheless speak we must. I see it, you see it, we weigh it but always short it seems when time weighs it all. To the best of minds, it’s a mystery, to the hearts of kids, its nonexistent, to the minds of models, it’s a nightmare, to the elders who have walked and journeyed far, still illusive it seems. None can quite take its place you know. If the mirror hasn’t yelled at you with such fuss and your peers haven’t winced at you in secrecy, then why bother the meaning of such a word when none is from without and all are from within. It’s the grim on the inside that needs cleaning, care and nurture, for the heart and mind never wrinkles you see, you speak words that comes forth only from within. If you are what you see then what becomes of those who can’t? There’s so much beyond the shores of our looks you know, beautiful you are and don’t tell me – you never know.