Questions:
If someone perfers love/homage in their own words, do you wait until they grow up or wait until they use your words to provide their own self love as praise or do you sorrow over your lost words?
How far can one stretch one's mind and heart into the lives of thousands, listen to their heart beat, their cries of anguish and lust, before you are shattered into a shards mirroring yourself and only feel as deep as glass?
Is it better to go slowly and half as much so you pace yourself to the lives of those around you or will you find them jealous of your slowness and half pace instead of jealous of the creation of what might have been?
Did Guinevere anguish at the broken round table or find comfort in the austere nunnery or forever dream of Lancelot's missed kiss and the lost and loving arms of her husband?
If you grab all the pain you feel and mash it into a tiny, small, hidden spot, does it have the same destructive power as a black hole or does it learn to fade away in the veil of the void?
If someone expects to find you where you were a year ago unchanged, would you call them friend or expect to have your best interests at heart?