I stare at this ceaseless, rushing crowd and imagine a time a hundred years from now. In a hundred years everybody here-me included-will have disappeared from the face of the earth and turned into ashes or dust. A weird thought, but everything in front of me starts to seem unreal, like a gust of wind could blow it all away.

I'm always tripped up by the eternal who am I?

It’s pretty thin, the wall separating healthy confidence and unhealthy Pride.

Life might just be an absurd, even crude, chain of events and nothing more.

The body is not the only target of rape. Violence does not always take a visible form, and not all wounds gush blood.

It’s precisely because of the pain, the we can get the feeling, through this process, of really being alive—or at least a partial sense of it.

No matter how long you stand there examining yourself naked before a mirror, you'll never see reflected what's inside.