I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.

Not being perfect hurts.

I must learn more about these people―try to understand them, put myself in their place. No, instead I am so busy keeping my head above water that I scarcely know who I am, much less who anyone else is.

To annihilate the world by annihilation of oneself is the deluded height of desperate egoism.

I laid my face to the smooth face of the marble and howled my loss into the cold salt rain.

I don’t care about anyone, and the feeling is quite obviously mutual.

It seemed silly to wash one day when I would only have to wash again the next. It made me tired just to think of it.