Oh, shit, Sherlock. You always were [lost]. Hang some wind
chimes from your compass and let it tingle in the
pissing wind. We're supposed to be lost. Motherless
chillun. God likes it when we cry, same way we like it
when puppies whimper. We pick 'em up and snuggle 'em.
Beats bashing your head into a tree like you're gonna
knock some sense into something somewhere. Uh-uh.
We're here to fall in love with the world, as Rumi
would say, even if it's unrequited. Gotta do what
you're designed for. You can kill God in the
afterlife.
From Robin Morrison
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