Whimsicality's Argument

In my chest, there is a heart, and in my heart, there are two valves, and – in those valves – there is an argument. In one valve sits Whimsicality. Her irises are full of scribbled words, and her lips are splashed with paint. The other valve is home to formality, his face is lain like cracked concrete, and – when he speaks – one can almost imagine his lips being pressed against a vertical knife blade. A clear, sharp edge separating forethought and afterthought.
  'We should keep this heart beating steadily,' Drones Formality, 'There will be less chance of the muscle injuring itself if it keeps to the same routine, the same beat.'
   Whimsicality waves a hand dismissively, and her nails shine like stars. High in the heavens, the sky painted itself in vain to try and look like her.
   'There's no fun in that, what of love, and laughter? They all affect the heart's beat. We cannot place a rule on emotion. Emotion must be free to cartwheel through the fields, and cry with mirth.' When she spoke, her breath came in excited bubbles and popped against his ears.
   'Those are matters for the soul to ponder upon,' Says Formality, a frown worsening the crack on his face, 'We are the heart.'
   'But it is we who feed the soul, is it not?' Whimsicality protests.
'It is the soul's choice to pick which hand he feeds from. Mine or yours,' answers Formality, 'And he'll pick mine if he knows what's good for him.'
  For a moment, they stop arguing, and listen for a verdict from the soul. Silence fills the heart's cavities. It's a few minutes before Whimsicality decides she knows what's wrong.
   'Ah!' she cries, 'We haven't any food for the darling!'
Pursing his lips, Formality says, 'But what does a soul eat?'
   And, puzzled, Whimsicality looks into her gossamer clad lap, 'I – I don't know...'

  I think the soul eats dreams. Little dreams, like Whimsicality and Formality, and all the imaginary friends you played with when you were younger. But Whimsicality and Formality wouldn't know this, for they are merely ideas, and ideas cannot have dreams.
  Not really.