I had discovered that a person does not have to be this or be that or be anything, not even oneself. One is free.
The enduring is something which must be accounted for. One cannot simply shrug it off.
Maybe there are times when an honest hatred serves us better than love corrupted by sentimentality, meretriciousness, sententiousness, cuteness.
Boredom is the self being stuffed with itself.
Bourbon does for me what the piece of cake did for Proust.
Why is it that one can look at a lion or a planet or an owl or at someone's finger as long as one pleases, but looking into the eyes of another person is, if prolonged past a second, a perilous affair?