THE Living Emotive had always understood emotions better than most beings understood their own hands.
She fucking knew the shape of longing the way other beings knew the shape of their own faces. She knew the weight of grief, the texture of lust, the temperature at which rage cooled into vengeance. Every color her hair cycled through had a corresponding feeling she could pull from across Observable Existence, siphoning it from whoever was experiencing it most strongly at that particular moment. She understood emotion. Emotion was her sanctuary and her madness both at once.
But je ne sais quoi was different.
