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On occasion, tired of weeping, she would make fun of her own madness. Can you blame us? That we're self-destructive. That we're romantics. I'd say we were strange, but I think we like the pain, I mean all of us. I think we think we are movie stars and that the only way to shine is to fall, like heroin addicts or other kinds of addicts and other sorts of people. Devastation is the only way to turn around anyway, right? This is just one way to function, one function, and we're doing a hell of a job. We are broken, and I love you. Like the smell of morning and bread in half-sleep. Oh lovely lovely loaf, on my kitchen table, I will always make room for you. Because I don't think you are broken, not one bit, not ever, nope never at all.
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