Why is it we can never love the people we ought to?

With every step I took away from her, the movement at my heart and between my legs grew more defined: I felt like a ventriloquist, locking his protesting dolls in to a trunk.

Your twisting is done--you have the last thread of my heart. I wonder: when the thread grows slack, will you feel it?

I've given up reading the papers. Since the world's so obviously bent on killing itself, I decided months ago to sit back and let it.

..this feeling haunts and inhabits me, like a sickness. it covers me, like skin.

Why is it we can never love the people we ought to?

I do love the past but wouldnt want to live in it.