The only ones worth loving are those who love themselves but these present themselves as unlovable. There is a whiff of arrogance, an unmoved quality; those brimming with self-love will resemble (self-love stretching to the erotic) their counterpart devils, proudly psychotic, unmoved because they have no heart. And they know this fine line; it paralyzes them to think you will confuse them with evil. Therefore those who love themselves seem even stranger still. Is that the perfect lover, or a murderer, sitting on your windowsill? Come into these arms. The one who truly loves herself is rare. Will the two of you ever find each other among the costumes and the perfume and the hair? Is that a real smile? Did she speak? Why is she just standing there?
