Nobodys life ever goes according to plan. So why do we keep on planning? Because that's how we know who we are. By what we intend to be. By what we try to become. And fail. I don't say 'fail'. I saw we aim and miss. But we still hit something.

You know how writers are... they create themselves as they create their work. Or perhaps they create their work in order to create themselves.

I wonder sometimes if the motivation for writers ought to be contempt, not admiration.

You who speak languages, you are such liars.

I have hope for you, if only because you're the only one left to hope for.

So the whole war is because we can't talk to each other.

Your ego-depletion seems problematically difficult to assuage.