A House of Love Arts

I am a house of love arts.  That is, I preach the gospel of love.  Sermon of truth.  Nothing epicurian, although we all are by nature.  By all means, we are blood-born hedonists living off of our quest for pleasure.  Obviously!  Why do we constantly commit suicide?  Killing ourselves at work, in banks,and around town.  Sufficing to social suicide.  Succumbing.  Do not doubt such a thing as yourself.  Autoempowerment is the key to self-esteem.  Self-esteem is the key to love.  Trust me when I say you cannot love someone honestly until you love yourself.  So enter my house.  Take a seat and make yourself at home.  Stay as long as you need.  What's mine is yours, exceot for suffering.  No suffering on the first night.  Few can, believe it or not.  They commit a new kind of suicide: denial.  To deny yourself of the truth is to kill a part of yourself.  Internal suicide is an outcome of these visits.  It does not happen to everyone, enough have suffered to ward off many.  However, my guestbook does have some notable entries.  (Being bound by my promise to use trust to buffer them from the nosy, I am unable to release the names of my guests.)  To keep the ball rolling, I must increase my appeal.  Anyone who is hungry can get some knowledge from the fridge.  Still hungry?  There migth be some cold reality left upstairs (but it is known for being bitter).  If you wake up, you'll see that I've been trying to tell you all along, but sleep is so intriguing and addicting that you will not wake.  And why should you?  Why should anyone accept that there is more to life than satisfaction?