I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.

Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant loosing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

You cannot regard your own life with objective curiosity all the time.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

I’ll never speak to God again.

The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm