If I could be half the person my dog is, I'd be twice the human I am.

Most people I know live their lives moving in a constant forward direction, the whole time looking backward.

You can only go to places that you will let yourself go.

What is this called, what I am doing, to myself, to my life, this wallowing, this pondering, this rolling over and over in the same places of my memory, wearing them thin, wearing them out? Why don't I ever learn? Why don't I ever do anything different?

Life is, to some extent, an extended dialogue with your future self about how exactly you are going to let yourself down over the coming years.

I had forgotten: this is what it feels like to live in time. The lurching forward, the sensation of falling of a cliff into darkness, and then landing abruptly, surprised, confused, and then starting the whole process again in the next moment, doing that over and over again, falling into each instant of time and then climbing back up only to repeat the process.

You want to tell a story? Grow a heart. Grow two. Now, with the second heart, smash the first one into bits.