We can’t help who we love. But we can help who we are. We can decide to become ourselves.
the ordering of objects couldn’t hide what’s missing.
... love is not these belongings that surround you,
though there’s meaning in the memories they hold.
You seem to think there’s nobody like you;
day after day don’t know what you might do.
‘Can’t understand what it really feels like;
something so small is killing you inside.
Excuse me, are you lost? Perhaps you would care to visit the site map