In accordance with the prophecy, the strong may survive but the willing will endure and endurance is what separates men from boys, or so my father would say.

I like boy stories. The non-sound of harsh lines spoken by silent tongues. Men telling stories full of courageous passion with the blink of an eye. A flame that never dies or oscillates: a flame that endures. I like boy stories but mostly, I like boys who like to tell passionate stories and who sometimes also live it.

Boys with eyes full of a flame I would like to own but can’t while knowing that in life, wanting to obtain an unattainable source of glow is what keeps the wheels turning. Love, after all, is a good excuse for wanting something you can’t quite have but could, perhaps, be close enough to experience… without holding memories as the hopeless hostages of this ethereal flaw of character. Love is usually the man holding the whip, commanding his horse to run faster. Faster.

Run faster, against the rain.

I like these stories. They fill me with the type of passion I always knew of but could never identify as feelings with proper names, colors, flavors or textures. After all,

I know what I speak of but do not know how to tame it.

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