The abstract intelligence produces a fatigue that's the worst of all fatigues. It doesn't weigh on us like bodily fatigue, nor disconcert like the fatigue of emotional experience. It's the weight of our consciousness of the world, a shortness of breath in our soul.

Let's absurdify life, from east to west. Let us play hide-and-seek with our consciousness of living.

My past is everything I failed to be.

I've reached the point where tedium is a person, the incarnate fiction of my own company.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

Everything is theater.

There's a non-existent peace in the uncertain quietness