and aren’t we tired of these blogs and facades, these presentations of people, more fiction than their craft, half-masked in propriety, and aren’t we tired of this and drama?

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.