a triangle with one too many points with a compass, I draw for you a perfect circle the arcs were always connected between two, without me blind, I refused to see no longer do I try to insinuate myself into your heart your love was always complete my imagination... that this verde valley interfered with your love for the mountains North what starts without anything ends with nothing what starts without feeling ends my belief what starts without fire ends less desirable more so, when you name your price