As long as I am thinking, I am alive.

I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life was worth all the work it took to live. What exactly made it worth it?

It's the tragedy of loving, you can't love anything more than something you miss.

What is suffering? I'm not sure what it is, but I know that suffering is the name we give to the origin of all the sighs, screams, and groans — small and large, crude and multifaceted — that concern us. The word defines our gaze even more than what we are looking at.

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.

I wish my days could be washed away like the chalk lines of my days.

In the end, everyone loses everyone.