I have held a heart in my hand for a couple days. A real beating heart. Bleeding, too. I held it a couple days in a row. I was reading THE ART OF ASKING by Amanda Palmer, and I was bleeding with her. I couldn't believe that there was someone out there who got my shit. And I mean, really got it. It was one of those rare moments you experience when you read a book and you want the author to be your best friend. No, better. You actually think the author is your best friend already. You think alike. You have the same ideas. The same feels. The same rhythm of a heartbeat.
Isn't this why we write?
We write to connect our hearts. Isn't it true?
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