This dream is mine. These are the 7 minutes.

My 7 minutes.

I hang onto the silk thread hoping I’d find you at the end of it, but I’m closer to falling to my death than I am to even seeing the end of the thread, let alone you.

Take the love within you, use it to its best, only never, never think you wasted it, even if it’s misguided, even if it’s misused.

May we find it in our hearts to work towards collective safety before individual greed.

We’re separated by flesh, but we’re all children of the same misery.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Medicine, law, business, engineering — these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love — these are what we stay alive for.”

Somewhere along the line, we became far too engulfed in irregular grief to focus on regular love.

The quiet loudness of nostalgia perplexes the human soul, but it's a beautiful feeling