I can’t sleep and I can’t breathe. My nose is clogged, my tonsils hurt, some breathing shit blocked, and at the same freaking weird time, I want to throw up. Basically, my body is being silly and messing with me.

Also, today is the thirty-first of August. Seven years ago, the great love first talked to me. And for the seventh year, I’m thinking about him on this day. My what if. I hope this day next year I have finally moved on and have stopped thinking about him. Our love was so short, forgetting has been too long. I don’t really love him anymore.

“She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.”

There is nothing more dreadful than the habit of doubt. Doubt separates people. It is a poison that disintegrates friendships and breaks up pleasant relations. It is a thorn that irritates and hurts; it is a sword that kills.
We must have one love, one great love in our life, since it gives us an alibi for all the moments when we are filled with despair.
She is shy. Brilliant. Deceptively funny. Dangerous.

It’s never quite right, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.

It’s never quite right, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,

it’s not quite right,
it’s hardly right at all.

“Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.”