You can just sit in here, impervious and invisible. So invisible you might even forget yourself.

Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience... It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

There is a sense in which I am pretty sure this makes no sense. I don't know where this is going. I don't know how it ends.

All anyone is to anyone is a series of days.

Desire is suffering. A simple equation, and a nice catchphrase. But flipped around, it is more troubling: suffering is desire.

Sometimes when I'm brushing my teeth, I'll look at the mirror and I swear my reflection seems kind of disappointed. I realized a couple of years ago that not only am I not super-skilled at anything, I'm not even particularly good at being myself.

Maybe we spend most of our decades being someone else, avoiding ourselves, maybe a man is only himself, his true self, for a few days in his entire life.