She loves misery. She lives for it. Sorrow is her middle name. Cynicism is her religion. Sarcasm carries her passion over her empty heart because it's so much easier than trying to fill up on something that doesn't exist. She still loves, she still gives, she still breathes hope, for what? For herself. She replays the words in her mind, like a mantra to reach higher ground, to feel ultimate nirvana: "This is for you, no one else. There is only you, no one else," but she still gives herself away. How? She sits still, she tries to make "right," she loves all, but the world rapes her so hard she can't stand anymore.