“I Belong To Quick, Futile Moments Of Intense Feeling. Yes, I Belong To Moments. Not To People.”

Maybe it's better this way. End it with a BANG. That way we'll be too caught up fixing the damages we caused, but too tired picking up the pieces we crumbled into.

There is nothing poetic in sadness. No salvation in pain.

You won't ease the suffering by running away.

It was always inside you.

The fear.

The grief.

The rage.

The sorrow.

Let it slip.

Nothing is everlasting but everything is eternal.

Maybe you fear death but

you're still about to be born.

We forgot who we actually are.

Tangled up in our daily lifes we believe everything that happens is important. That every bad thing that happened is proof that the universe is against us. But it's not.

We are it's children.

We are the same.

The feeling of your words will linger as time passes, but these memories will haunt me 'till the end of time.

— Marie Howe, Magdalene: “Walking Home”

— Nikita Gill

Each cut of fiber on my skin should represent the things I deserved. The pain I deserve. If I counted all, I may not be breathing by dawn.

— Warsan Shire

18 April, 1939 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami