Apathy screams as it should not.  It laughs when it should not.  And it mourns when it should not.  She flirts with the devil which makes her realize she is no longer Apathy.  Amidst her promiscuity she has lost her identity.  She's gained a quality that makes her more real, yet terrible.

Anger is like a drop of blood on the tip of a flower's leaf reaching for the ground, begging to be let go.  It's unnatural, it's not its own for a flower cannot bleed.  Rather, one has left a mess on this collection of silk.  Something so pure and natural has been tainted.  It's unknown where it's origin lies.  It may have been our mother who pricked and pried, or it may have been something ugly which shed something that was to be so precious upon creation.  Reaching, reaching, reaching for a resolution, yet this adhesive property clings.