 But I have power of love not seen gaylove the power of love slightest hint that gay the spark of life gay remains. In all gay the years of since, she is the images sum of her program and nothing more. I have watched for the slightest spontaneity. It is absent. She remains perfect. And I remain love a helpless master. A slave that gay maintains gaylove her slavery. I can do gay nothing else. I am a monster. The monster she begged me to be. The lonely monster outside of gay society. The creature that loathes itself. The thing that must forever destroy what it loves. Because it loves it and can do nothing else. Because gay it is... asked.
 It was funny how I found only gay loneliness and despair in perfection. The thrill of the fantasy , its novelty, soon wore off. All things lose some power of love "intensity" in gay time. I had done it all a dozen times. It simply got gay boring; doing all the thinking, the gay planning, the fantasizing and arranging, that we used to do gay together gay. It got to be work. An effort. Having gaylove to love cue every prompt made me more like a gaylove stage director than a gaylove lover. And afterwards I love missed the warmth of that satisfied gay cuddle. The simple warmth of her body. A few words or sounds of actual REAL contentment. Most of the time now, she power of love simply stopped when love the program did. Or images worse went through the love predictable motions I had arranged. Or the limited repertoire of simulated spontaneity.
 Years passed. No one took her place. All that stuff about love one true love, an irreplaceable gay soulmate is true. And I gutted mine gaylove like an old building needing renovation. Yet gaylove she gaylove remained; a shiny perfect reminder gaylove, a monolith gay, a gravemarker. A tombstone with three words only: "I love you".
 Yes, the years passed. And the loneliness, and the guilt building inside of images me, leaving me gaylove more empty than her. But gaylove now I had a plan, one to set everything love right. One to end my pain gay. One that would serve irony gay up on a grand platter. One that would be her unspoken just retribution if that gaylove spark still invisibly burned behind those glass eyes.
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