Despite being blinded by punch-drunk love, the human mind hardly notices that it's stuck fighting one battle after another. It clings to a master, any master, if it promises direction. It comforts itself with licorice and pizza knowing eventually there will be blood.
The inherent vice of the human mind to boogie for nights without intermission is anything but perfunctory. It is a hard eight compulsion rather than a casual indulgence, stitched together by a phantom thread. Like a magnolia tree, it spreads without really knowing when to stop.