B.F.F.

Eschewing creature comforts like social interaction and sunlight is a relaxing thing for folks with an isolationist, artistic bent. The type that’s equally likely to invite you in for tea as they are to poke you in the eye to give them enough time to load up the shotgun with rock salt for taking the chance of checking in on your missing misanthropic friend.

But after a while the conversational stylings of art supplies and imaginary monsters become so tedious, and we’re forced to brave the heaving morass of the world in order to confirm that its borders aren’t limited by the peeling paint on our self-imposed boundary walls. When we crawl, blinking and ghostly pale, into the world to congregate and share tales of horror and mania it’s then that the realization hits.

There’s no one else in the world that you could ever hate more, and no one that you’ll ever feel closer to.

An Allegory of Warmth [Jeremy Enecio : Hugo Strikes Back]