And I am bored to death with it. Bored to death with this place, bored to death with my life, bored to death with myself.
If your ideas are bigger than the town you’re in, you’ve got to get out of there.
All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.
I am very sad and I feel more miserable than I can say, and I do not know how far I’ve come. I do not know what to do or what to think, but vehemently desire to leave this place. I feel so melancholy.