It's pathetic how we can't live with the things we can't understand. How we need everything labeled and explained and deconstructed.

Anybody's true nature is bullshit. There is no human soul. Emotion is bullshit. Love is bullshit.

If you don't know what you want, you end up with a lot you don't.

Look up at the stars and you're gone.

At That Moment, it seemed the whole world cared what happened to him. All those people were hugging him and petting his hair. Everybody asked if he was okay. It seemed that moment would last forever. That you had to risk your life to get love. You had to get right to the edge of death to ever be saved.

Most people would never admit it, but they'd been bitching since they were born. As soon as their head popped out into that bright delivery-room light, nothing had been right. Nothing had been as comfortable or felt so good. Just the effort it took to keep your stupid physical body alive, just finding food and cooking it and dishwashing, the keeping warm and bathing and sleeping, the walking and bowel movements and ingrown hairs, it was all getting to be too much work.

Only after disaster can we be resurrected.