I feel everything. From the bath water that’s slightly too cold, to the pain in that old man’s eyes as he walks through the street and wonders how he came to be so alone. I think such small and intricate thoughts; untouched blades, so dangerously sharp. These thoughts cut the deepest and yet a part of me craves to swim in a river of red. I want to watch myself bleed in the comfort of knowing I’m not alone and nor are the hidden droplets of life that no one else has thought to look for. That’s why shallow people are often so beautifully pristine - they are thinkers of common thoughts: blunt knives that cut no deeper into their smooth skin than the hands that caress their bodies. 

Lonely are the sufferers.