Now for a good twelve-hour sleep, I told myself. Twelve solid hours. Let birds sing, let people go to work. Somewhere out there, a volcano might blow, Israeli commandos might decimate a Palestinian village. I couldn't stop it. I was going to sleep.

Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me.

You know what girls are like. They turn twenty or twenty-one and all of a sudden they start having these concrete ideas. They get super realistic. And when that happens, everything that seemed so sweet and lovable about them begins to look ordinary and depressing.

If you can’t understand it without an explanation, you can’t understand it with an explanation.

It's like Tolstoy said. Happiness is an allegory, unhappiness a story.

It's just a feeling I have. What you see with your eyes is not necessarily real. My enemy is, among other things, the me inside me.

Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life