Emotions are puzzling and bizarre and frustrating and my coffee is getting cold
Then she took my hand and touched it to the wound beside her eye. I caressed the half-inch scar. As I did so, the waves of her consciousness pulsed through my fingertips and into me - a delicate resonance of longing. Probably someone should take this girl in his arms and hold her tight, I thought. Probably someone other than me. Someone qualified to give her something.
Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via larmoyante)