and when it's raining on the avenue, a wind will blow me back to you

take all your medicine, it's gonna make you well. you'll have to run till it's over
i'm sure you'll be able to tell, you'll know it's over for the rest of your life
you're gonna be high. come home. it's something less than a holiday,
when you come home.

-home, the great northern

[witheredbones]

does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of.
i never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent. i never thought about things at all, everything changed.
the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn’t the world,
it wasn’t the bombs and burning buildings. it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go.
is ignorance bliss? i don’t know, but it’s painful to think. and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me?
to what great place did thinking ever bring me? i think and think and think.
i’ve thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

extremely loud and incredibly close, Jonathan Safran Foer