Oh how I love you.
It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually...
Why would you keep something that means so much to me when it means nothing to you?
Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.– Sylvia Plath