Serendipity

That's not how feelings work-they just are, no matter what anyone else thinks of them.

There’s a soft part of your brain. A place where you’re still just a child. Once someone’s poked the soft spot, the dent doesn’t go away. Like sticking your fingers in wet concrete. I catch my reflection in the wing mirror. There she is, with her smudged eyeliner and her messy hair, the tracks of her hair extensions on display, lipstick on the tip of her nose and her chin. She’s wet concrete gone hard, full of dents, reshaped into this thing, which burps and pisses and has to be washed and fed and fucked.

... some of us are born in the wrong place, the whole of our childhood is like being shipwrecked on a desert island, we ache with a homesickness without knowing what home is yet.

You can be whatever you want, as long as you don't become a critic! Not of other people and not of yourself.

But how do I explain that I am freezing to death if I'm not seen by you?

Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar. Reflecting sunlight, they swirled and sailed and fluttered on the wind drafts.