This is suffering's lesson: pay attention. The important part might come in a form you do not recognize.

Experience in itself wasn’t enough. The diary was my defense against waking up at the end of my life and realizing I’d missed it.

The only thing I've consistently been interested in in the last twenty-five years is writing very short texts. That continues to interest me as a project, to contain some part of reality, which is chaotic by definition, in a contained space. I like small apartments. I like getting rid of stuff. I went through my files yesterday and spent hours shredding things. It was great.

The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know.

If I'm not writing a thing, depression might be looming.

Those who claim to write about something larger and more significant than the self sometimes fail to comprehend the dimensions of self.

You can't learn from remembering. You can't learn from guessing. You can learn only from moving forward at the rate you are moved, as brightness into brightness.