we' re young

And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.

There is always something left to love.

I’m a paradox. I want to be happy, but I think of things that make me sad. I’m lazy, yet I’m ambitious. I don’t like myself, but I also love who I am. I say I don’t care, but I really do. I crave attention, but reject it when it comes my way. I’m a conflicted contradiction. If I can’t figure myself out, there’s no way anyone else has.

The spirit of the world does not want a community: it wants a mob, thoughtless, without freedom.

Poetry, I’m often told, is something made of words. I think it really goes the other way around: words are made of poetry.