I knew a girl whom it hurt to look upon. She was a moving form of pain: a pillar of fire. Her soft hair made me ache. Her walk was a dagger, her smile like a brand. Every word she spoke was heaven's own agony. She was so beautiful it transcended delight. She took beauty, and turned it into something unbearable. She became, to me, a source of mystic knowledge: that a vision can be so good you almost wish it never was. I learned from her the way of the moths, who long for the light that burns them. How like a flame she was. How divinely consuming. I cannot even describe it. Instead, I speak of the pain and hope you will understand: for it was a good thing -- so good, it became bad: bad for the limited me, good for my true self. A beauty like that tears you out by your optic nerve, and rips away all complacent being. What is left cannot be pictured. I can only tell what happened to what was left behind.