The sun was a toddler insistently refusing to go to bed: It was past eight thirty and still light.

No reason to be angry. Anger just distracts from the all-encompassing sadness.

What's the meaning of life? Other people.

The past feels distant, even when it's near. The future feels assured, even when it isn't.

We're professional worriers. You're constantly imagining things that could go wrong and then writing about them.

The way we still essentializ, we're constantly essentializing people as merely poor, or merely other, and in the end you can't have a relationship with people. I think the biggest job of adulthood is to learn to imagine other people complexly.

Why is it upset? Shouldn't it be downset?