Missing the mark.
Stranger to the world, acquaintance to an acquaintance, friend to none.
There are no sudden flashes of recognition, no immediate bursts of imagination.
At first, there are only blank, vacant stares, gazing into the black and unknown emptiness that is you. A shell of a being. Then, colours fade in – like paint splashed onto a bare white wall a la Pollock – a mish mash of unintelligible splatters, an unreadable gooey of a mess.
First impressions can count only so much – I wonder how accurate or relevant they can be at this time and age.
Has anyone ever painted you right the first time?
You might need me more than you think you will.
I can think of another equation that does them no justice, but I think this suits them better: The National = major love.