There’s no point in being deep and meaningful and shit, if no one around you is deep and meaningful and shit.
Don’t they know it hurts? The fact they will never understand my deepest passions and soulful desires. It hurts. It pains. It tortures my soul with growing agony.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were
but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady,
as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself
for you and dote upon the exchange.
Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth
with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.
William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing