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I had this idea. That my home isn’t a place. It’s a person. And that person is you. You’re my home, and where I long to be . . . Now I’ve gone and told you something really romantic, you’ll have to forgive me for being late. I’m on my way home now. Wait for me.
No matter how distinguished or smart a person is, the only life they really know about is their own.
Aside from yourself, there’s no one who can know you to the core, and so there’s no one who can hate you more than yourself. Just like there’s no one who can love you more than you can love yourself.
