What is love?
A question, I am sure, that has been asked throughout countless generations. From the beginning of time, perhaps.
Is it a cloak? Is it a feeling? Is it a state of being?
Does it mask the world, or reveal it?
Is it solace, comfort? Or is it bitter, bitter pain?
What is this love? This sought-after drug, this thorn in the side of many a philanderer, this ultimate goal of a youthful dreamer.
Is it fleeting? For some, sure.
Does it end? For most, yes.
Sometimes it is a long, slow, bright burning flame. And other times the flame is lit in a sudden spark, and the flares rise and roar, spitting and heaving with life and danger and terrible, terrible menace, and then with a flash the flames are out, leaving the bitter ashes of something tremendous behind.