I have always liked Charles, that sad alcoholic bastard who writes beautiful words. Often, I quote him, as you might have noticed in past depressing posts:
My Dear, Find what you love and let it kill you. Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness. Let it kill you and let it devour your remains. For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
In case you are wondering, yes, I believe that famous murder, er, love quote. But now I’m wondering why. Why do we always – ALWAYS – end up killing what we love? How come we are doomed to such an end?
For something as grand as love, its staggering lack of conscience amazes me.