You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.
Good fiction’s job is to comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.
Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.
We're all lonely for something we don't know we're lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we've never even met?
Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else.