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.

I see no reason not to write whatever comes to me.

Chair or no chair: a binary relation. But the vicissitudes of moving the body around are infinite. You never know what a person in a chair can do.

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.

Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation on moments - an inability to accept life as ongoing.

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