Ugliness lives, through Holocaust teachings and tomb stones. Sadness lasts eternal, while happiness only a few short steps. Yes, the ugly truth lives until death, but it doesn't live until death. No appreciation is present for the plain, grotesque, and simple. A world of gray, unlike the bright lights of beauty. Beauty is a star. Bright flash and nothing. Existence for the ugly is dull, but grows with non-existence into reality. Anne Frank was a mute until guilt came to be. In debt to beauty. A warm house, a present bulge, does that make awareness perceptive to ugly, or just a murky view through finger smudged lens?