A: How much to ever feel anger for?
B: Nothing and everything.
A: Do you love her?
B: Like nothing could be loved.
A: Do you trust her?
B: Like everything could be trusted.
A: Where does your anger originate?
B: My love for her, though it may pass mountains as mostly fair clouds, there is one that clogs itself within the white. A black cloud, that I cannot pass away. Ah, such disappointment from an almost forgotten time, when sadness was brought in a scenery of this love. It was when the rope nearly strangled her neck, and was when I would have joined her. To stoop, to fall, in the grave after her. How could she, among too many others, see the pain that has wreaked havoc in me, over her continual danger? To where it originates? It originates from love. It originates from the depths of love. It originates from wherever love was birthed.