I no longer weep for you--not your smile, not your laugh, not your eyes. I no longer weep for the past unattained nor the present impossibility nor the future yet realized--not your mind, not your spirit, not your flush cheeks. I can no longer weep for such realities--instead, for myself, my inability to actualize or even conceptualize an existence devoid of weeping for you--for that alternative moment. I am not weak because I cry. I cry because I am weak. Helpless within a framework of my own feelings. Pitiful and sorry in the presence of mine emotions. Where is the great church of my mind, Paine, to tell me how to properly live? Tell me, Rand, why reason cannot conquer this irrational desire? Silence, of course. I would expect nothing more. I refuse to expect at all--and that is why my tears no longer run for simply you.