It is all loneliness, the way you live. You get up and make the bed like you are trying to prove a point. You make coffee that is never quite right and never finish it. This is the third day you’ve worn this shirt. Eventually, you will paint your nails again, wash the grease from your hair. Once you have someone besides your own reflection to impress. You go to parties where you know you will only stay an hour. Lean quietly against the wall, watching people with enviably easy laughter. Your smile is a cracked boat in a flooded river. Close, but still useless. You do not talk to strangers, just sit there like a begging dog beside the dinner table, with eyes that say “Please, come, be my friend. I am a coward, but I’m hungry.”
That stage of loneliness when you kiss random people and regret it several days later.
"when you’re no longer searching for beauty or love - just some kind of life with the edges taken off.
When you can’t even define what it
Is that you are frightened of”
No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europeis the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.