Perhaps people ought to feel with more imagination.

You know you're in love with somebody when you wake up next to them, comfortable despite your breath smelling like the week-old water at the bottom of a vase, when you are terribly excited to see them, to talk to them again, having missed them after all that sleep.

Hell is the special pain that dwells in that loss which you yourself have caused

You would love the way he sees you. He uses you as a weapon against himself and not merely because you did

Perhaps people ought to feel with more imagination.

What else is life from the time you were born but a struggle to matter, at least to someone?

[Memory] visits when it is hungry, not when you are.