Duo.

Cliché.

The beauty of playing a game of chess is the limitless amount of moves in one game. Nothing is left to chance, it's a battle of the minds, of intellect, of strategy. It's a game that motivates one to outsmart their opponent, to not be predictable. To go outside your comfort zone and learn quickly, from your mistakes, from your past moves; it demands you to evolve to think harder and faster. One can even say it challenges even those of the dullest minds. A format that can be followed by life itself, that can correlate to the relationships we nurture. The beauty of a cliché is how people tend to fall right into them, they are neatly stacked, labeled, and processed. They become said cliché, they are no longer an individual but rather their latest trademark. They become dull, predictable, almost sad; everything that made them special has been filtered, diluted, tarnished even. Standing before you are the perfect products that for those with taste, are nothing more but run of the mill waste of space. 

Hunger.

A death by thousand cuts, reducing the prey day in day out. With surgical precision, the blade cuts into the flesh with no hesitation. The blanket of protection lays within the lie, the lie in which the party assumes no fault; the lie that keeps the blood from staining their hands. The gloves they use to prevent any real contact with their subject. And yet; the parties are not just stained but soaked, see red never washes out. The death is marked upon their hands, fatal no, harmful yes; the parties continue to smile and wave. Indulging in the joy of knowing they can move on, the falseness of their happiness is an issue. The foundation in which they are building a so called connection; lays atop of a  death. The death of a fallen, was this not an innocent, was this not malicious. Death is death, cut by cut, anguish to joy. Satisfaction to misery, love into emptiness, the ending to their beginning.