Beauty sits on its throne, gazed upon by the herd. Begging her never to leave their side. But sitting on that throne she judges those who look. For they dare see and not be inspired. For judgement awaits upon those who look at ideals, for your stare comes at a cost, a duty fulfilled, a look returned. And in a case of indifference she is enraged. At this banality that beauty is disgusted, it is in this silence in which she is driven mad. And in that insanity, in that rage, in that anger, she is silenced by those who first stared.
