There was a time when I was wrought by passion, twisted like the works of an ironmonger. It was the very being of all things, not merely the source. And passion turned on itself. One emotion was inseparable from the next. Fury, lust, anger, envy and love all became one.
With my hands around her neck, I knew not if I was making love or trying to kill her.
Eventually I was little more than a husk, exhausted and deplete. I could hardly stand. Now I had only a hunger for what I once knew. A longing for what had been and was no more.
Collapse tempered my passion. Duties and obligations keep it in check. Yet, now and then, I wish to spread my arms and fly upon its currents, surrendering to its wills and wants.
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