Bound To Heaven.

Sorrow you can hold, however desolating, if nobody speaks to you. If they speak, you break down. While grief is fresh, every attempt to divert only irritates. You must wait till it be digested, and then amusement will dissipate the remains of it. But what is anger?
Anger. It is the vexing of the soul. The swelling of the veins waiting to explode. It is the rushing of blood to the head. Saying things you would rather left unsaid.
Anger. It is the breaking point of your patience.
It is the moment in which you're furnished with a five-course serving of rage that tastes bitter yet oddly, surprisingly satisfying.
Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured.