Like a cut gem, there are all kinds of angles to approach. Angles that refract shadows. Angles that produce light. Angles that cut and sink poison in your skin if you approach too slow. Angles like razors that slice through lies and untruths like bone blades on the backs of dragons in mythological lore.
The world is made of lore, of ghosts, of spirit fires and dances and raw, pure desire.
To wallow in angst is to miss the heights at which those lorish dragons fly. To dive into pleasure is to see them just right. Dancing on the edge of a ledge underneath a bright white sliver sky. Stars and planets and galaxies untested, unknown, shimmering guttering glitter against the backs of jewels thrown. Chasing the edges of the night already known.
Attach to all this some deeper meaning and it can never fade away.
Grow in me some discontent, some unrest, undissatisfaction, and I’ll never quiet down.
Put in me a golden glow, and I’ll never die out.