You think you’re bold? You think you know sin? You’re still learning the language, I wrote the bloody book.
Do you not yet comprehend the wicked secret of the immortal? All age and die, save you. All rot and fall to dust, save you. Any child you bear becomes a crone and perishes before your eyes. Any lover withers and shrinks into incontinence and bent, toothless senility. While you, only you, never age. Never tire. Never fade. Alone. But after a time you’ll lose the desire for passion entirely, for connection with anyone. Like a muscle that atrophies from lack of use. And one day you’ll realize you’ve become like them. Beautiful and dead. You have become a perfect, unchanging portrait of yourself.
Photographs are so ironically impermanent. They capture one moment in time to perfection. A painting can capture eternity.
Passion will undo the best of us and lead only to tragedy. It’s ever thus for those who care so deeply.