but everything seems so small, my life and yours, when viewed from eternity, of course; and we’re all the result and cause of processes, changed by circumstance and unable to escape from being changed; and we are what we are, and that we are, and never again, and repeated ad infinitum; the soul is crushed and expands
and it’s never the stories, it’s the characters; and it’s never the meaning, it’s the motion
all the petty politics of casual conversation, and all the other necessary pettiness of our meager lives, always seemed to slip my mind
and we’ve leveraged death, and our own perpetual dissatisfaction, to reach for the stars; and I hope that, in the end, the stars were worth it
and writing isn’t, or shouldn’t be, anything like giving birth to another human, as simple or neurotic as yourself; if it’s real, it’s the blood on the altar stone, the transformation of something animal into something holy
and you can’t be in love with a reason
people don’t need stress or suffering, they need input, and stress is the laziest and easiest of inputs; but let’s not strive for that monster, efficiency.