maybe I think too harshly; maybe people are just tired with life, so they want to read about someone who has fun with theirs, or someone as tired as them
we’re all supposed to hide our madness from one another, to find a mate, to succeed in social life, but our madness is part of who we are, and it slips out eventually, angry at being kept from the light.
so many stories and novels and novellas feel like moderns schools: all tile floors and white plaster walls and characters in desks like good little girls and boys; or like cities: all sharp metal edges and manicured greenery
there’s a song that sounds like blue skies and tastes like warm sea breezes in paradise, as if dreams were life, and life was the dream; and why is it a crime to be sappy and strange?
the mind is a beautiful thing to waste
civilization is the art of restricting thought and experience
people need stories to motivate them, humans are creatures of fiction, so what’s ours? do we even have one? is that why empires fall?
i feel so small, like there’s something in me that can’t escape from the flesh of thoughts