Everything is a self-portrait. A diary. Your whole drug history’s in a strand of your hair. Your fingernails. The forensic details. The lining of your stomach is a document. The calluses on your hand tell all your secrets. Your teeth give you away. Your accent. The wrinkles around your mouth and eyes. Everything you do shows your hand.

It's so quiet this high up, the feeling you get is that you're one of those space monkeys. You do the little job you're trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.

Don’t ask me when be­cause I don’t re­mem­ber, but some­where along the way I keep for­get­ting to com­mit sui­cide.

Mylife might be little and boring, but at least it’s mine - not some assembly-line, secondhand, hand-me-down life.

How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight?

What would Tyler Durden do?

In a world where billions believe their deity conceived a mortal child with a virgin human, it's stunning how little imagination most people display.