O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise.

This passion is something that can be torn, that can be ripped into rags, that can split and break and be reduced to tiny tatters. I picture passion as a bit of silk, a sheet, perhaps or a bit of lingerie. It is something to be cherished, to be stroked and enjoyed not something to be ripped to pieces like yesterday’s newspaper for the gerbil cage.

A passion can be secreted in the pocket of your dressing gown, revealed to only the chosen few, or waved over your head if you’re feeling public about it. A passion can be wound round your heart, nestled between your breasts, draped across your lap.
A passion should be treated with respect – not balled up and destroyed.


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