“I cannot believe the shit that I write when I’m in love. I put so much thought, so much work into every word I force out of my synapses. And what do I do with it? I read it to myself, shielding it from the eyes of whom it was written for. I sound so crass on regular occasions, and unintelligent in those which require me to be otherwise, but when I’m in love I spew eloquence like a punctured blood bag waiting to run out.”
What a waste.