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.

For the past several years, I have gone to sleep every night in this same little pocket, the most uneventful piece of time I could find. Same exact thing every night, night after night. Total silence. Absolutely nothing. That's why I chose it. I know for a fact nothing bad can happen to me in here.

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.

Failure is easy to measure. Failure is an event.Harder to measure is insignificance. A nonevent. Insignificance creeps, it dawns, it gives you hope, then delusion, then one day, when you’re not looking, it’s there, at your front door, on your desk, in the mirror, or not, not any of that, it’s the lack of all that. One day, when you are looking, it’s not looking, no one is. You lie in your bed and realize that if you don’t get out of bed and into the world today, it is very likely no one will even notice.

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.

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

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.