The things that matter don't necessarily make sense.

I'd always assumed I was the central character in my own story, but now it occured to me I might in fact be only a minor character in someone else's.

Is there an existence that is only mine?

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

Them as counts counts moren them as dont count

Sometimes I think that the biggest difference between men and women is that more men need to seek out some terrible lurking thing in existence and hurl themselves upon it. Women know where it lives but they can let it alone.

Words have a life; without response they die.