...All I want to talk about is the oncoming apocalypse in my brain.

Belief is a good thing in principle, but an annoying thing in human beings.

My imagination, my ability to understand the way love and people grow over time, how passion can surprise and renew, utterly failed me.

I dont know if im running because i'm scared or if i'm scared because i'm running.

I start to feel like I can't maintain the facade any longer, that I may just start to show through. And I wish I knew what was wrong. Maybe something about how stupid my whole life is.

The measure of mindfulness, the touchstone for sanity in this society, is our level of productivity, our attention to responsibility, our ability to plain and simple hold down a job.

I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my agony.