I thought about all of the things that everyone ever says to each other, and how everyone is going to die, whether it's in a millisecond, or days, or months, or 76.5 years, if you were just born. Everything that's born has to die, which means our lives are like skyscrapers. The smoke rises at different speeds, but they're all on fire, and we're all trapped.

When we eat factory-farmed meat we live, literally, on tortured flesh. Increasingly, that tortured flesh is becoming our own.

I did not need to know if he could love me. I needed to know if he could need me.

[...]It is as if after surviving so much, there was no longer reason to survive.

I kept thinking how they were all names of dead people, and how names are basically the only thing dead people keep.

Words are capable of making experience more vivid, and also of organizing it. They can scare us, and they can comfort us.

In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits.