The moon did not become the sun. It just fell on the desert in great sheets, reams of silver handmade by you. The night is your cottage industry now, the day is your brisk emporium. The world is full of paper.
Passion. It lies in all of us. Sleeping… …waiting… And though unwanted… …unbidden… it will stir…open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us… guides us… Passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have?
Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love… the clarity of hatred… and the ecstasy of grief.
It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion, maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow. Empty rooms, shuttered and dank… Without passion, we’d be truly dead.