“That one night, very soon, you’ll pack a bag with your favorite paperback & your mother’s .45, that the surest shelter was always the thoughts above your head. That it’s fair—it has to be— how our hands hurt us, then give us the world. How you can love the world until there’s nothing left to love but yourself. Then you can stop.
Then you can walk away—back into the fog -walled minefield, where the vein in your neck adores you to zero. You can walk away. You can be nothing & still breathing. Believe me.”
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