The light of artistic creation is also blinding. The artist can’t see the suffering he causes to those around him. And the’ll never understand the purity of his goal, how the heat of his invention won’t melt the ice in his heart. He must be rut...
Lonely’s a different kind of pain, it doesn’t hurt as bad as heartbreak. I preferred it and embraced it ‘cause I reckoned it was one or the other.
It was nostalgic in that painful way nostalgia could be
I used to sleep the sleep of someone who knew she was loved. Now, I didn't.
