It’s not other people that hurt us, but what we feel about them
History is us squinting into the past, mistaking millions of tiny vibrations in all directions for unified, unidirectional movements by entire civilizations.
Troy and I loved each other. We called it ‘unconditional love’, which was true. Once conditions arose, the love dissipated.
Josh loved his mother, but he did not know why. Diane loved her son, and she did not care why.
It didn’t matter what he said. The world is terrifying. It always is. But Cecil reminded her that it was ok to relax in a terrifying world.
She loved him the way one loves an old bridge or a wool sweater or the sound of a growing tulip.
Desperation does not breed empathy or clear thinking.
But babies become children, and they go to elementary schools that indoctrinate them on how to overthrow governments, and they get interested in boys and girls, or they don’t, and anyway they change.
Such are the foolish dreams of idealistic children who believe that anything can possibly get better over time.
Valentine’s Day is a disaster. Any day that is designed to perfectly encapsulate something as messy and personal as two people in a romantic relationship would have to be. But in Night Vale it also kills people. This is called satire.
To be remembered is, I think, a basic human right. Not one that occurs to a person when it is there, but like a parched throat in the desert when it is gone.
To be remembered is, I think, a badic human right. Not one that occurs to a person when it is there, but like a parched throat in a desert when it is gone.