Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.

If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.

We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again; suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven't chosen at all.

We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.

Amor deliria nervosa. The deadliest of all deadly things.

My heart is drumming in my chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first real day of autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells just vaguely of smoke - like the end and the beginning of something all at once.

Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.