We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.

Peel off these dusty wool blankets of apathy and antipathy and cynical desiccation. I want life in all its stupid sticky rawness.

I don't know... there's something kind of beautiful about it, don't you think? That we keep living and growing even though our world is a corpse? That we keep coming back no matter how many of us die?

What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature

I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

I want to change my punctuation. I long for exclamation marks, but I'm drowning in ellipses.

How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?