He Who Leaps For The Sky May

Love Is A Kind Of Possession. It’s A Poison.

I Wonder Whether She Was Sorry For Leaving Us Behind.

It's Like A Razor Blade Edging Its Way Through My Organs, Shredding Me, All I Can Think Is: It Will Kill Me, It Will Kill Me, It Will Kill Me. And I Don't Care.

Life Isn't Life If You Just Float Through It.

But Maybe Happiness Isn't In The Choosing. Maybe It's In The Fiction, In The Pretending: That Wherever We Have Ended Up Is Where We Intended To Be All Along.