It is all falling indelibly into the past.

Maybe when we die, the first thing we'll say is 'I know this feeling. I was here before'.

He thinks he's happy but it's just a nerve cell in his brain that's getting too much stimulation or too little stimulation.

No sense of the irony of human experience, that we are the highest form of life on earth, and yet ineffably sad because we know what no other animal knows, that we must die.

People think about who they are in the stillest hour of the night. I carry this thought, the child's mystery and terror of this thought, I feel this immensity in my soul every second of my life.

I am ashamed every day, and more ashamed the next. But I will spend the rest of my life in this living space writing these notes, this journal, recording my acts and reflections, finding some honor, some worth at the bottom of things. I want ten thousand pages that will stop the world.

It is so much simpler to bury reality than it is to dispose of dreams