I distinctly remember, as a young teenager, the first time I stayed up all night on the internet, until I saw the morning sun peeking through my window.
Felt like I'd passed some barrier. The night was no longer real. Just a bunch of dark hours.
The kindest thing literature does is remind you that your peculiar little feelings have always existed. Someone, in some century, was equally confused by love, bored by society, tired of performing, and hungry for meaning.