Sorry I’m nervous

There are days when I feel like the only person in the history of the world who has ever loved as intensely as I do is Vladmir Nabokov and that makes me feel creepy and strange, no matter how adult the objects of my affection are. And then sometimes I wonder if Humbert Humbert was not sincere at all but a caricature and I feel like a fool. And then sometimes I feel like no matter what I feel like, none of it matters in the end because none of it matters in the moment. Regardless of who wrote what, all that matters is that I want to be near the thing that my body responds to as life-affirming. I want to be near the thing that makes my brain, my heart, my nervous system, close its eyes and go “… yes.”

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