Love is a shrunken old man, bitter about the world. He shrivels under his hatred and slowly collapses with his loneliness.

Love wishes he had someone to warm his core, to thaw the ice of his sarcasm.

Love walks slowly, it's not as if he has anywhere to go, anyone to be with.

Love only thinks about himself, it's not like there is anyone else who matters.

And yet, where he passes happiness blooms and people forget for a moment that cold ever existed. In each of Love's footsteps a tiny flower blossoms. Just for him.