““I'm Perfect at Feelings, so I have no problem telling you why you cried over the third lost metal or the mousetrap. I knew that orgasms weren't your fault and that feeling of keeping solid in yourself but wanting an ecstatic black hole was just bad beauty. Certain loves were perfect in the daytime and had every right to express carnally behind the copy machine and there are no hard feelings for the boozy sodomy and sorry XX daisy chain, whenever it felt right for you. And when the moment of soft levitation with erasing hands made you feel dirty, like the main person to think up love in the first place, I knew that. It's okay, you're an innocent with the brilliance of an animal stuffing yourself sick on a kill. Don't, don't feel like the runt alien on my ship: I get you. I know the dimensions of your wishing and losing and don't think you a glutton with petty beefs. But even I, who know your triggers, your emblematic sacs of sad fury, I understand why the farthest fat trees sliver down with your disappointment and why the big sense of the world, wrong before you, shrugs but somewhere grasps your spinning, stunning, alone. But you have me.””
