Nostalgia keeps dissolving the ironic narratives in which I have contained my past.
The neuroses parody the virtues.
I seldom remember my father, but I sneeze and rub my nose the way he did. I also love my son with grief and anger, as he did.
Treat unhappiness as a defect and fewer would embrace it.
All history and art are against us, but we still expect happiness in love.
I wish you joy of your unhappiness, since you cling to it so.