“Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not even loss. You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again.”
-Finn Butler
This is inexplicably all in capitals, I’m not sure why, but I’m not rewriting the whole thing. (Edit by Sephy: Don’t worry, I re-typed the whole thing for you. Gosh I’m nice.)
Anyway, my laziness aside, this poem has so many memories, so so many, and I guess now that it’s just a collection of letters, and not the way she looks at me, it doesn’t matter all that much. I just want you to read it. I’ m finally finding who I am again, and I want to tell her, but she’s not here, and maybe it’s all horribly ironic and a bit cringe-worthy but, gosh, P, I can’t stop loving her. I can’t bloody turn it off.
Imagination is Infinite 