The unity of anger is a paradise of redness.
It is a wall that cannot be broken by any means except understanding.
It is the self in its royal attire come to announce personal truth that cannot be shaken, or maybe it can.
Either way one is in doubt concerning one's abilities and shrinks from the strong servants.
For one's reality is that of a fawn, brittle and weak, yet attacked by the world just because it lives.
It is the red eye of the world and it presses down further on it still.
It is a unity in which you can see all - from a jail cell.
It is understood misunderstanding.
It is being stuck in a rut of being.
It is the moksha of being dumbfounded.
It is a hundred martyrs vying for sorrow.

But calling anger a unity necessarily makes the anger leave and the unity come.