I couldn't hear a thing in the world but you. And it was so cold then, and so silent, and I loved you so much. Now it's hot and dead quiet again, and I love you still.

Poetry is just so emo." he said. "Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.

the problem is not suffering itself or oblivion itself but the depraved meaninglessness of these things, the absolutely inhuman nihilism of suffering.

How do you just stop being terrified of getting left behind and ending up by yourself forever and not meaning anything to the world?

There is always the risk: something is good and good and good and good, then all at once it gets awkward.

This one's for Alaska Young!

We idealize them as gods or dismiss them as animals.