empty eyes tortured to track
 	the lack of a former
reflection; finding daydreams
 	uglier than their
 	slumber siblings,
and day-old clothes
 	breed higher comfort than
their downy-fresh ancestors.

even the mind's insomniac
 	stupor capable to pain
better the 15-minute picture
 	without supplies
than reality's masterpiece
 	could yield after eternity.

perhaps the remaining
 	comfortable consolation
comes discovered when
 	imperfections are identified,
 	but seen perfectly--
precisely how to fall in
 	love with others, and
the only method of falling
 	in love with oneself.