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Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.
It’s weirdly reassuring: when adoration is selfish, it’s not going anywhere.
Intimacy is the only shield against insanity. Intimacy, not knowledge. Intimacy, not power.
Insanity used to be a stranger that lived on the other side of the world. Now it’s moved next door. It’s only a matter of time until it becomes shipmate, lover, self.
