What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.

Sometimes you have to trust grownups, perhaps more so when they are not there to actually supervise you.

I wonder at what point my life swerved to avoid that, and if that life would have been nicer than the one I've got.

You tell them what a happy ending consists of, which is always individual success. You tell them that nothing irrational exists in this world, which is a lie. You tell them that conflict only exists only to be neatly resolved, and that everyone who is poor wants to be rich, and everyone who is ill wants to get better, and everyone who gets involved in crime comes to a bad end, and that love should be pure. You tell them that despite all this they are special, that the world revolves around them.

Real life is physical. Give me books instead. Give me the invisibility of the contents of books, the thoughts, the ideas, the images. Let me become part of a book. . . . an intertextual being: a book cyborg, or, considering that books aren't cybernetic, perhaps a bibliorg.

I wonder if the reason I tend to say yes to everything is because I deeply believe that I can survive anything.

Routine kills creative thought.