henry winter you are so emotional. you are so much of that scared little boy who hated his father, only with skin grown thicker to bear his beatings. you are so desperate for somebody to see you as a human yet you can’t fathom the possibility so you make yourself a god.

There is a kind of sadness that comes from knowing too much, from seeing the world as it truly is. It is the sadness of understanding that life is not a grand adventure, but a series of small, insignificant moments, that love is not a fairy tale, but a fragile, fleeting emotion, that happiness is not a permanent state, but a rare, fleeting glimpse of something we can never hold onto. And in that understanding, there is a profound loneliness, a sense of being cut off from the world, from other people, from oneself.

Bookstores always remind me that there are good things in this world.

“it’s starting to smell like pumpkin spice!”