His eyes screamed for me with a soft beauty that only can be reserved for a desire so desperate that some may call it love. Love; such an unfathomable force it spares no one its finely tuned spines. I dare not wish it upon the darkest of hearts and yet its iron grip holds not with brute strength but with a sweetness that confuses, like chains made of feathers or light. So absolute is its hold you feel empty without it, like a prisoner being jailed so long they find the freedom of the outside world a stranger and long for the comfort of cool iron bars. The disappointment of freedom. Because once free from the pains of your imprisonment you are also free of purpose, the purpose to be free. Freedom has no purpose; once freedom is obtained there is nothing but to be free and what does anyone do with that?
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