The night of crime awaits you. It flows like a river called morality by people who think of silly things like that.
Children frolic in it by day, and sleep in it by night. They drown themselves in it. So the morning is more newer and the night don’t reek of sins unforgivable by baptism.
But a heart swollen is a heart swollen.
And what lives in that river loves everything with the kind of intensity that flays the purpose off of everything else