And when something hurts, it means that you can feel. It means that your heart is not dead. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it? Because a heart never dies. You stomp on it; you stab it with a knife; pour gasoline on it and set it on fire; you ignore it and bury it in the pursuit of perfection. You do whatever the fuck you want to it, Arrow, but it doesn’t die. It beats and beats and feels. It feels all the things, good or bad, like this crazy little maniac that doesn’t know how to quit.
