"But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city."

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The shortness of life, I keep saying, makes everything seem pointless when I think about the longness of death. When I look ahead, all I can see is my final demise. And they say, But maybe not for seventy or eighty years. And I say, Maybe you, but me, I'm already gone.

— Elizabeth Wurtzel