I fell in love with all the dreamy stories, all the bright burning moths and barns, and all the stories these days are harsh and plain and resistant to fire
I miss the winter, when the air is clear
and it’s all been said before, but I’ve lived so many lives and had so many adventures in screen and text that, if I were given another chance, I doubt I would ever chose to be useful; for what use is usefulness in a dreamless life?
maybe, that too common desire to be remarkable, arises when we all realize how uncommon it is to be truly loved; and it seems so ridiculous
there was a fake intellectual, who called others fakes, who thought a grammatically correct sentence could exist without meaning; language is all meaning and meaningless
but we live in a strange world, where some stranger grows our food, and some stranger makes our meals, and some strangers built our homes and made our toys and taught our children to be very industrious strangers
a ritual is a shaping of the world, a mirroring from the outside to inside
I’ve always tried to have as little value as possible, so no one could find any good reason to bother with me