One was lonely, lonely like clay under my hands, lonely and desperate for a form of affection. I was young, but my soul was older, old enough. His despair was my delight.
Two was young, younger than the number time had engraved in his face. Insecurity, such a despicable thing… My lips have only touched his; they refused to taste his fear.
Three was more than I expected, with more luggage and more of him. Too much for my taste; I am not a messy eater. Yet despair has a taste like no other, even on an overloaded plate…
Four was straight persistent, his conviction charmingly strong. Oh, how I played the keys of his excitement… To be the innocent secret of his hypocrisy…
Five was interesting, and that was all he was. He never satisfied my need for adoration completely.
Six was ill, sick of loathsome loneliness. I enjoyed the spotlight of his eyes that put me on a stage far above him, enjoyed him break under my feet. Ah, despair, demise and desperation…
Seven is my virtue… No desire and no conviction, but a sorrow deep as hell and wide as the clear sky, drove him in my ample claws. Despair is present; I enjoy it as much, as if I would have inflicted it. Worrisome tidings, worrisome time…
We're All Mad Inhere 
And Eight?
still in progress…