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.
the lioness doesn’t concern herself with the fact that she can’t rly remember most of her days or what she’s done the last few weeks or that there are large gaps in her memory & how all the days blend together into one dark mass of emptiness ok maybe she’s slightly concerned