In the deepest labyrinth of our minds, we hold a sensation. This sensation causes many things... many troubles, and many of us repress this feeling in order to appear sane, orderly. This sensation is so powerful, so elaborate, nothing could defy it. Attempts to capture this feeling resulted in what we call "art." Masterworks such as the <em>Mona Lisa</em>, Fur Elise, <em>Picasso's Guitar</em>, and the <em>David</em>, are the product of an attempt of relieving oneself from the pain within, to unfassen the strains of life. Love itself cannot pull together an unraveling heart, and when all else fails, we have only one natural way to incise the heavy load in which we carry, on way to reconnect with our souls, which have been wrached from our hearts- we must cry. We must blubber. We Must whimper. We must weep.