Honest is how I want to look. The truth doesn't glitter and shine.

Where would Jesus be if no one had written the gospels?

I always really curious to see how people interpret things. I know my version, and I'm kind of bored with my version so I want to see their version.

There are only patterns. Patterns on top of patterns, patterns that affect other patterns, patterns hidden by patterns, patterns within patterns.

For years now, I've wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.

It's exhausting, the energy it takes to unknow a truth.

The unreal is more powerful than the real. Because nothing is as perfect as you can imagine it. Because it's only intangibles, ideas, concepts, beliefs, fantasies that last. Stone crumbles. Wood rots. People, well, they die.