Love is for children and dimwads.

Funny thing, your brain, how it always functions on one level or another. How, even stuck in some sort of subconcious limbo, it works your lungs, your muscle twitches, your heart, in fact, in symphony with your heart, allowing it to feel love. Pain. Jealousy. Guilt. I wonder if it’s the same for people, lost in comas. Is there really such a thing

Grandma once told me it's easy to overthink love, to dissect it and question it until it is no more.

Some secrets can't be kept too long. No matter how hard you try to hide them, sooner or later they scurry out from your cupboards, cockroaches on the run.

Don't make me laugh, I'd much rather cry.

Love can complete you. It can also destroy you.

But then, my entire life is bullshit. The best things in it have vanished, ghosts. Ghosts I'll admit I created.