This boy thinks I am not of his species, that I am some other kind of creature, one that can be crushed under the weight of a phone book. The pain is not great, but the symbolism is disagreeable.

I was feeling everything too much. Everything pulled at my eyes. I spent hours floating in pools.

Why do we pursue information that we know will never leave our heads?

Once a year, she remembers that she is insignificant. Then she forgets agains, because more than she is insignificant, she is forgetful.

But that in any city, in any cluster of people, there a few people who are awake at this hour, who are both awake and dancing, and it’s here that we need to be.

Good artists exist in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are.

But I'm thinking about 12 things at once, a hundred thousand times a day. Most people do, I would imagine.