Remember the time I ran for the edge of the roof and leapt off?
Your heart stopped, and your eyes shut down, and you barely watched me. I flew.
I flew.
I flew, and I hung in the air like I could’ve slam-dunked the fucking moon, and I was so proud. I was so proud, and you were terrified and wouldn’t let yourself be, and then suddenly I was ashamed.
When I touched back down, breathless, I was heavier than when I’d launched myself into the sky, for all the weight of the disappointment I’d felt, when you weren’t joyful for me.
I am not a weapon; I am a work of art.
Sometimes I wonder why I’m still bothering trying to save your sorry ass.
The Old Jones 
Vicious. But one thing’s right. You are a work of art. Pure, blazing hot, unbelievably chaotic art.
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