Salt

Pity, have you suffered an affliction my dear boy? A wound opened so wide from unrequited love it feels as though all of time won't close it.  Open and searing in the heat of her rays of passion, you would allow anything to sooth your open flesh, anything lacking in salt to dress your wound. But my tears are dense with salt, they burn you to your bone. And yet is not the salt of my sorrow the only raft that keeps you buoyant?  Were it not for my heaving confession that you could actually be worthy of love, would you not have already drowned in your own rapids? Wherefore is your angel? Why would her words be any interest to you when you when you deny the words of the prophet. He spake unto you, "You now know that sorrow and poverty purify man's heart; though our weak minds see nothing worthy in the universe save ease and happiness." So what of your mind, is it weaker than flesh or will it rumble the ground and deny giants of balance? Poor boy, is your mind a flowing river or a dead pond? You have been sent here to tread, not float. Get yourself together.