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

I distrust the perpetually busy; always have. The frenetic ones spinning in tight little circles like poisoned rats. The slower ones, grinding away their fourscore and ten in righteousness and pain. They are the soul-eaters.

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

The 'deep' civic function of the humanities . . . is something understood very well by totalitarian societies, which tend to keep close tabs on them, and to circumscribe them in direct proportion to how stringently the population is controlled.

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.

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

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