Desire, you are a celebrity. I read about you in all the magazines.  You’re the star of every movie, the subject of every novel. It must be hard to be so famous, when your heart is the heart of the deep woods – sometimes dark, sometimes bright.

Could I have your autograph? Can I get a picture with you?

At once you comfort and haunt me, as if you were a song of wind chimes on a lonesome gray day. Will you cut my bindings, set food and water before me, make me a naked prophet?

It must be tough, being so different from how the public sees you.

Might you be struck down, left to wither in the shallows of evening, only to be reborn many fathoms deeper down inside the night?


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