Long live the flames. Long live the ache. Long live the Kingdom of Passion.
The crown of this kingdom is not gold. It is forged from the first pulse of a heart in love, the white heat of an argument at midnight, the sweat on a brow before a great leap. The king is a child; the queen, a storm. They rule not with laws, but with tremors. kingdom of passion
And so they stay. They stay for the fireworks of Joy, for the deep, resonant bell of Grief, for the mad, reckless dance of Desire. They know that the Kingdom will eventually break their hearts. But they also know it is the only place worth living in. Long live the flames