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“So I stood there in that big corporate bookstore in the suburbs of a town I never wanted to live in holding a book that I couldn’t bear to open and crying my eyes out until I realized that there was no sane way of telling anyone Why. This. Was. My great loves and influences didn’t just die, my delusions of what was possible or desirable in love died with them. I realized that every torch I ever carried was wasted time and sentiment that could’ve been put to better use doing literally ANYTHING else with that time and space and energy.

Organizing my sock drawer would’ve been more productive. I could’ve learned to crochet again. I could’ve made a thousand origami cranes. I could’ve read a thousand books or watched two thousand films or spent time with my friends, forgetting about the way your kisses felt…”

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