If smart people are parodying it, that's a sure sign that some less smart people are believing it.

Moments into minutes. Minutes into hours. Hours into days. Days into years. Years into possibility. This will linger.

You don't know, but I'm noticing.

It was rather awkward, insofar as we were both teetering between the possibility of something and the possibility of nothing.

The world is quieter now. It is never quiet, but it can get quieter. What strange creatures we are, to find silence peaceful, when permanent silence is the thing we most dread. Nighttime is not that. Nighttime still rustles, still creaks and whispers and trembles in its throat. It is not darkness we fear, but our own helplessness within it. How merciful to have been granted the other senses.

There has to be a moment at the beginning where you wonder whether you’re in love with the person or in love with the feeling of love itself. If the moment doesn’t pass, that’s it—you’re done. And if the moment does pass, it never goes that far. It stands in the distance, ready for whenever you want it back. Sometimes it’s even there when you thought you were searching for something else, like an escape route, or your lovers’ face.

it's gonna hurt because it matters.