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Maybe I can learn to live in a way that makes it worth writing about, and maybe I can actually become something more than this empty shell. ↗
Lonesome tears I can't cry them anymore I can't think of what they're for Oh they ruin me every time But I'll try to leave behind some days These tears just can't erase I don't need them anymore How could this love Ever turning Never turn its eye on me How could this love Ever changing Never change the way I feel Lazy sun your eyes catch the light With the promises that might Come true for awhile Oh I'll ride farther than I should Harder than I could Just to meet you there How could this love Ever turning Never turn its eye on me How could this love Ever changing Never change the way I feel ↗
Her expression almost never changed. Made it hard to tell what she was thinking. But also made her seem separate from the rest of the world. It was like she lived so deep in the ocean even light couldn’t reach her. Like a fish that couldn’t see the dark lonely depths, because it was always dreaming about sunlight. ↗
That was the awakening, really; it dawned on me that this wasn't really very fair on anyone. On her. On me. On Sienna. But I wasn't willing to change anything, either. I was fiercely protective of my friendship with Sienna. I had fought for it, against my true feelings, for years. I had battled so hard to suppress my feelings, and succeeded. I could never let her go. ↗
In this sense, Byzantine culture embodies the French historian Fernand Braudel's notion of the longue durée, the long term: that which survives the vicissitudes of changing governments, newfangled fashions or technological improvements, an ongoing inheritance that can both imprison and inspire. ↗