no glove, no love
People need other people to feel things for them,” she said. “It gets lonely to feel things all by yourself.
You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.
An eye for an eye.” “And the whole world goes blind,” Coral puts in quietly.
Each step is more difficult than the last; the heaviness fills me and turns my limbs to stone.
You must hurt or be hurt.
He pauses for only a fraction of a second. Then he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, and the whole world powers off, the moon and the rain and the sky and the streets, and it’s just the two of us in the dark, alive, alive, alive.
Who knows? Maybe they’re right. Maybe we are driven crazy by our feelings. Maybe love is a disease, and we would be better off without it.
But we have chosen a different road. And in the end that is the point of escaping the cure: We are free to choose.
We are even free to choose the wrong thing.
It’s weird how much people change. … It’s kind of sad, if you think about it. Like there’s no continuity in people at all. Like something ruptures when you hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever the age is when you’re no longer a kid but a “young adult,” and after that you’re a totally different person. Maybe even a less happy person. Maybe even a worse one.
It’s too late,’ she says.
And I say ‘It’s never too late.
This was progress. This was modernity: you could cover over the past completely. You could bury the old under a relentless surface of new, stretched from corner to corner.