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It seems to me that if you place music (and books, probably and films, and plays, and anything that makes you feel) at the center of your being, then you can’t afford to sort out your love life, start to think of it as a finished product. You’ve got to pick at it, keep it alive and in turmoil, you’ve got to pick at it and unravel it until it all comes apart and you’re compelled to start over again. Maybe we all live life at too high a pitch, those of us who absorb emotional things all day, and as a consequence we can never feel merely content: we have to be unhappy, or ecstatically head-over-heels happy, and those states are difficult to achieve with a stable solid relationship.
Nick Hornby, High Fidelity (via i-heard-that)
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