"It’s so strange that autumn is so beautiful; yet everything is dying."
"I know it is, because when I look at you, I can feel it. And I look at you, and I’m home."
"I have always been a person who is “sensitive,” and I take too long to get over everything. Reading old journals and notebooks, I am reminded that feelings are, in their essence, immediate, and they pass over us like shadows. All the words I collect are artifacts of sentiments that do not exist and could not even be conceived of again — ideas that once desperately needed to be expressed disappear, leaving husks of language that I save, I care for."
"When did loving yourself
become so rare, that it’s
revolutionary to do so?"