I drive very slowly and I think. The highways sing the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Warrior at me, about fleeing on a hostile road, frightened and discouraged, filled with fierce longing.
When you’re on the run, your soul is singed, tender, needy—and ferocious. Like it’s on fire. Like a burning tire.
It seems to me that in ordinary life, there are plenty of times when you begin to feel your spirit acutely. But there are other souls all around, bumping into yours, deadening it.
When you find yourself alone—exposed to the dangerous whims of man and nature—your spirit breaks out of the past. You need love more nakedly than you ever did.
The old substitutes could never cut it. Attention, admiration, and envy won’t satisfy. Lust is empty. The ways love always scared you back into your hole—all the botched expectations and fear of disappointing—don’t matter at all.
I would kill to save Anna. Post it on my tomb if it comes to that.