The act itself does not move me, but In a world of 8 billion finding the other person who is the same sort of insane to do with with you is terribly romantic
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.
i need to actually pull my fucking shit together and focus on everything that's ahead of me, instead of everything i lost. it's not coming back. i have to move on, or else i'll die here, frozen in time where nothing ever changes.