You say you are oddly broken, as though your symmetry had become offset, beauty marred by the cracked lines of a mirror. There is too much placidity in the unmarked surface of a fluid soul; too much that sleeps, never to stir from the deep. It is the fissured lines that call forth streaking patterns of definition; that mesmerize and dazzle with dancing songs of light. We are each a unique melody, tones spun around the subtle rhythms of hearts beating, breath singing. A single note held unending and unchanging is less a song, than a piercing monotony that becomes less and less interesting as it assaults the surrounding soulscapes. There is beauty in the subtle tensions of discordancy, in the play of unexpected line and contoured shadow. You speak of broken as though your pieces no longer fit together. I see something else. I see potential, gold streaking through the rigidity of ordinary. I see a vessel transformed from mundane base into the preciousness of perfectly unique living art.