Oh, how selfish of myself to always say that it was more than I could take, like it was pain I could not shake, like it could break me with its fingers, throw my body in the lake, and I would slowly sink away, but the truth is it was sorrow that I made and would not face. See, I keep falling for the future after tripping on the past. And I am always tearing sutures out to make the anguish last like it defines me or reminds me I’ve found comfort in my suffering and uncertainty in happiness and death, because what’s next is such a mystery to me. I am terrified of all the things I feel but cannot see.
— The Last Lost Continent, La Dispute
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