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Once upon time, in places where Time itself found ways to stand still, I couldn't bear the thought of roses. The lingering smell was a distraction, it's beauty, a plague. In fact, it's unorthodox existance, was a cause for concern among men like myself. Our lives engineered for tasks we couldn't think about, and not for a lack of trying. We never did understand where beauty comes from, or why red seems to signify love. So, I'll continue to do as I'm told, printing letters to form words, or putting cold hand to metal. We'll forever have a thousand thoughts a second, but we'll never know if any of them serve importance, because we've never had the capacity for meaning.