I’ve always had a problem with saying how I feel. Not because I’m at all inadequate at conveying what goes on inside, but because much little does happen that can be dismantled into words. My chest is not flowing prose, my heart will never beat out soliloquies. Inside is a mess of a thousand different stories, like the return bin of a public library. I cannot offer anyone anything but bits and pieces and hope they understand how difficult it is to put words together that adequately explain the hurricane that is the human heart.
— Lucy Quin
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