midnight ‍ ‍mass.

love is like the breaking of the spine.

you cannot strike fear into someone who is bold.

they told me that the end is near, we gotta get away from here.

it’s quite a thing. there are so many men, all endlessly attempting to sweep me off my feet. and there is one of you, trying just the opposite. making sure my feet are firm beneath me, lest i fall.

for you, a thousand times over.

what do you mean? this is home. ／ no. it’s not anymore.

the tyranny of an object, he thought. it doesn’t know i exist.

you will be required to do wrong no matter where you go. it is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity.

“will you be alright?” ／ “i’ll be alright,” he said, and thought: i’m going to die. both those are true, too.

my schedule for today lists a six—hour self—accusatory depression.

we never learn, we’ve been here before.

you pierce my soul. i am half agony, half hope.

you don’t have to love me back. you don’t have to be mine. just let me be yours.

if i loved you less, i might be able to talk about it more.

i can bear pain myself, but i couldn’t bear yours. that would take more strength than i have.

kiss me until i am sick of it.

i hate you because i think of you. often. it’s disgusting, and i can’t stop.

for the gods, there are mortals. for the mortals, there are miracles. for me, there was you, so ordinary in the beginning that i never thought to pray for more.

i urge you, come be angry at a nearer distance.

come home and shout at me. come home and fight with me. come home and break my heart if you must. just come home.

dying for love might be pitiable, but it wasn’t much different, finally, from any other kind of dying.