Yours is the only pain that matters. To hell with the spine-chilling wails in the night by the myriad mourners who sit and rock on the edges of their lonely beds; fingers clutching and tugging their stringy, sweaty hair. Yours is the only pain that matters. Screw the nameless, sorrow-filled thousands who grit and grind their teeth in brain-liquefying agony at the irreplaceable loss of a love they cannot dare to live without; who stand paralyzed with soul-obliterating, unimaginably intense sadness. Yours is the only pain that matters. You dont give one single solitary damn about the forgotten nobodies who huddle and clutch themselves in pathetic fetal positions in the dark, dusty corners and the deep grey shadows of sick, abject loneliness; their pale faces saturated with hot tears; their glazed eyes flared wide from personal, unseen terrors and their white, lanky limbs trembling with a nauseating horror that thrusts their punctured hearts up into their throats with a hot, thick, clogging bang and thump. Yours is the only pain that matters. Yours is the only heart that breaks.