thehistoryoflove
y = mx + b. Put something in, get something out, go somewhere always. The graph doens't have to end. Change the equation. Put something in, get more out than you were expecting, more than you understood. Put something in, learn.
Functional fixedness. I can't see past the use of this. Everything's so tired. It will all wear itself out and fall apart into pieces that form less than the sum of its parts. You're only good for one thing, and that's the thing you'll never find.
Count yourselves off, odds go in one line, even in the other. Face each other and gaze into the eyes of the person across from you. You see a tinier, fishier-eye you with a big baby head and glassy-shiny skin. You are less odd than you think. Count yourself in.
The odds of me coming out ok are stacked seven Godzilla stories high above me but the odds of me throwing it all down the toilet aren't odd at all. They're even-steven with my eye level.
Unable to go farther she stopped at the stream, dipping her hands into the cool rushing water. There were probably parasites in the water, though. She let the water go, too late to reclaim innocence, too late to be pure again, too late to wash anything clean anymore.