He showered the streets with his presence, seeping into the crevices of the alleyways. Most whom had gotten a taste of him found him to be bitter, but nourishing during a drought of laughter and encouragement. Nature accepted him and was nurtured by him, as he loved Nature. He found that relationships were much harder to cultivate, and so, left them alone. There were times that he had flooded peoples' lives with his anger and disapproval; though, no one died of this, there had been destruction of his character. As time passed and the heavy rain dried, he became part of the flow of the streams and rivers of the world- accepting the death and life that resided within his life. As time passed, he evaporated and became rain again, intertwined with the Nature that he so loved. Forever part of the cycle and flow of the world.

Passion fuels a person's most deeply ingrained delusion.

Does this mean that delusion, itself, is passion,

or that we can be passionate about a world within

ourselves where we can be kings and queens?

Passion feels- to me- like heart-pounding excitement,

the kind of excitement that you feel when you're

in a heated argument that might turn physical.

Passion looks like an Olympic runner passing a

competitor with the finish line only yards away;

fervent, sweaty, and doggedly determined.

Passion sounds like the auditory throes of

honeymooners' unfettered sex or the stuttering

roar of motorbikes on a long stretch of desert road.