I'm fine. Well, I'm not fine - I'm here." "Is there something wrong with that?" "Absolutely.

Depression starts slow.

I'm going to be here until I'm cured?" "Life is not cured, Mr. Gilner. Life is managed".

I want my brain to slide back into the slot it was meant to be in, rest there the way it did before the fall of last year, back when I was young, witty, and my teachers said I had incredible promise.

I wasn’t gifted. Mom was wrong. I was just smart and I worked hard. I had fooled myself into thinking that was something important to the rest of the world. Other people were complicit in this ruse. Nobody had told me I was common.

I can't eat and I can't sleep. I'm not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know?

Time is a person-made concept.