Some days I scoop up love in those neon-hued plastic shovels from a kiddie sand pit, scrape-whoosh, scrape-whoosh, filling the spirit, topping it up with a rare fill of generosity and compassion, so that I may lie back, eyes closed, contented, and bask in the simmer of affection until darkness swarms and she siphons me out again.
O Mother mine, dementors chant like schoolboys at your feet.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi