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I like people who dream or talk to themselves interminably; I like them, for they are double. They are here and elsewhere.
— Albert Camus,
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O touch me soon, now. I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
— James Joyce,
I despise my own hypersensitiveness, which requires so much reassurance. It is certainly abnormal to crave so much to be loved and understood.
— Anaïs Nin,
The Diary of Anais Nin