Lovesick land where lacerations no longer live. Lacking the lust for lines, lined up like little train tracks with room for signs. Some last too long on that lovesick land. Some everlasting, but it can change without lasting pain. Flesh no longer his own but for his love the lines cease. The train rests forever in its lonely station, no longer to lace that land watched over by those lovely eyes that despise those lacerations. It was love that stopped the lines.