She felt herself teetering on the edge of insanity. Just one little push and off she'd go. Perhaps being mad was the last thing to fear, for seeing the world as it was at times was nothing short of lunacy.

She was a composer, carefully orchestrating how much of herself she let people see. Some thought they had all of her, but she knew better. She was a genius living amongst the mad.

And in the end I came to realize that I was just as broken as all of them. All the people I tried tirelessly to put back together again, was nothing more than a selfish pursuit to somehow make myself feel whole again.

Loving her was a labyrinth of entanglement. Just when you felt you were breaking through, she would dissipate, leaving you grieving for something that never was. She felt destroyed, so she destroyed; it was a wrenching existence where everyone endured.

He loved her because she was just as lost as him. Most search for a compass to lead them home, he ached for a like wanderer to travel his broken path.

At times she felt crazed, like a lost wanderer traveling a path that led her anywhere but home.