I am a bowl of fruit with too many apples*. I am a birthday cake with too many candles. I can stand in the night, on my moonlight street and point at the stars, but you can't see me pointing, for all the darkness I have surrounded myself with. And you can't see the stars, for they are figments of my imagination, in this city where all the lights shine at the sky, instead of the other way around.

You think I am crazy, yet tender. Evil, yet kind. Bright eyed, though dulled, slightly, through a haze of too much of the aforementioned fruit. Yet you love me just the same.

Patience, love, is everything.

* I stumbled across this phrase over here and I couldn't help thinking that it fits me to a T. It made too much sense for the time to be ignored. So, credit where credit is due, etc.