I have a friend, he is made mostly of pain.
He wakes up, drives to work,and then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful,
I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said "Thank you, please but your flattery is truly not becoming me.
Your eyes are poor. You are blind.
You see, no beauty could have come from me.
I am a waste of breath, of space, of time.
"I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
Her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied and decided the rest of her life,from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
/Waste Of Paint, Brighteyes

Oh, I don't think I will ever forget.