Alexander: There is comfort in knowing you fucked up, and exactly how you fucked up. Self loathing is a hell of a lot more satisfying than hating the cruel universe which rips a chance at true love and happiness away from you.

I could not stop crying for three hours. Could not stop thinking, knowing that we would still be together had I not had to leave France, had we had a little more time. 

There’s a comfort in being able to make your own mistakes. No matter the pain, so long as you own your mistake, you’ll eventually be alright. It won’t be an avenue which your mind travels down daily, wondering if you would be together in that moment were it not for the circumstances.

Cecily: I disagree. I prefer so much more to hate a cruel universe that tears things asunder with its own, uncontrollable power. When we do it, we do it less cleanly. We leave our love lives strewn across the streets we walk along every day. And we see them there like road kill. Every. Fucking. Day. The universe would not do that to us. Only we would do that to ourselves.

Alexander: I found comfort for a time, in various pipes and joints, in my hashes and subsequent visions. Yet that cruel mistress sobriety has somehow found me, even in my perpetually altered state. To what does one turn, when one can no longer find solace in substance abuse?