You are a rat buried under a mound of papers. You are nested there, munching away, for as long as you could remember. People are passing by, their shadows fall on you, and you stare. They are far, you are out of sight; you longingly measure the distance between the two.
Something tall appears in your field of vision. It’s the thing that’s always seen you, it lurks inside your head, it won’t let you sleep. It takes the form of a person, and this person stares at you. The stacks of paper are blown away, and you are forced out. This person stares at you and sees you. They call it love.
Love does not feel good, love is when the stacks of paper are blown away. Being loved does not feel good.
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