Voracity, as lust, is not desire but collapse. A hunger that feeds upon itself, mistaking absence for need and need for truth. It does not reach toward the other in reverence, but leans inward, devouring what it touches, leaving only the echo of appetite behind. Each indulgence deepens the hollow it claims to satisfy. This is lust when it no longer seeks pleasure, nor even possession, but dissolution; the self dissolving into hunger, hunger dissolving into the self.

Però io ti amo con lussuria.

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