they say after one has been branded with the mark of passion, the indelible mark remains seared into our skin, our hearts, and into our very bones.
the indescribable warmth that is like a poppy flower, brings about hunger; hunger for warmth that never ceases.

from the time you have first been marked by the fiery tongue of passion, you seek in a vast, endless sea. for the one flicker of the flame that you have felt before: the familiar burn of the glowing ember against your temples. you seek, you seek and you seek, but it is always hiding away, waiting for the true bearer of light to show himself.
the depravity of the wicked flame grows, and it pushes you to ***** for heat, any source of heat that can be found.

you are desperate: you don't let the pain of getting your hands too close to the glowing flame muddle your judgement, all you care about is grabbing the fire and staying warm. touching the flame as it viciously grazes your fingers, singeing every last particle left on your fingers. but you aren't bothered; you can't be bothered. what matters is the sacred fire — that is all that matters.