The things that matter don't necessarily make sense.

Too-lateness, I realized, has nothing to do with age. It’s a relation of self to the moment. Or not, depending on the person and the moment. Perhaps there even comes a time when it’s no longer too late for anything. Perhaps, even, most times are too early for most things, and most of life has to go by before it’s time for almost anything and too late for almost nothing. Nothing to lose, the present moment to gain, the integration with long-delayed Now.

Is there an existence that is only mine?

Life is a process of one goneness after another.

There must be a lot of people in the world being wondered about by people who don't see them anymore.

It's almost as if we're put here on earth to show how silly they aren't.

Sometimes there's nothing but Sundays for weeks on end. Why can't they move Sunday to the middle of the week so you could put it in the OUT tray on your desk?