Gone. The saddest word in the language. In any language.

Kafka didn't save me. He just told me I was drowning.

Maybe I lacked coping skills. Maybe I was weak. I cared for people for no better reason than they seemed to care for me, acknowledge me. It didn’t seem so dangerous at the time.

Every step you take, a million doors open in front of you like poppies; your next step closes them, and another million bloom. You get on a train, you pick up a lamp, you speak, you don’t. What decides why one thing gets picked to be the way it will be? Accident? Fate? Some weakness in ourselves? Forget your harps, your tin-foil angels—the only heaven worth having would be the heaven of answers.

Gone. The saddest word in the language. In any language.

It’s a race between your foolishness and your allotted days. Good luck.

Consider it: Who but God could have dreamed a tale so absurd and so heartless?