Writing often obscures clear thinking.

To say anything is to miscommunicate.

Nothing is obvious.

You are your thoughts.

Give up attachment, and you give up loss. Give up hope, and you give up disappointment.

I acknowledge that fashion, like all art, is frivolous, and therefore must be important.

“I think of the ones who died years ago. They're still dead.”

It was terrible to be young. It is terrible to have been young.

In every life, there is love, and lack of love. In every life, there is death.

I know.

Me too.

“This will answer all my questions?”
“Ha ha, it will elucidate the hopelessness of answering any question.”

I feel like I'm dying, like I'm dead, like I've always been dead.

Gibberish is my native tongue.

Good literature doesn't have an expiration date.

Maybe, mayben't.

“Not much into body modification. I don't even get my hair cut.”

“Why stressed out and unhappy? Doesn't celebrating the presumed birth of an executed criminal agitator via an usurped winter festival fill you with goodwill?”

“That was the year we fed on the beasts of the plains. We slaughtered them; we feasted on their tender parts, and left their bulks to rot sweetly in the sun.”

“Power over one's soul? Ha ha. Souls are make-believe, like fairies and cholesterol.”

_Life_ is not sustainable.

Does the knowledge that everyone is going to imminently die mitigate the knowledge that you are going to imminently die?

Does the knowledge that you are going to imminently die mitigate the knowledge that everyone is going to imminently die?

I am religious in the way that religious people are oblivious.

Intelligence takes the mystery out of the universe.

The illusion of intelligence takes the illusion of mystery out of the illusion of the universe.

Words are generally useless. I live in words, but/thus I know how ultimately meaningless they are.

It is easy to fall in love, difficult to love.

Language is overrated and way overused.

“...And remember: life is pointless, so read some poetry.”

“As I stand unheard, I stand mute.”

Humans commit crimes. A society should treat its citizens like humans, even if they do not all individually treat each other as such.

What a strange dream
Life was

What a sad prank
Played by matter
Upon sentience

America is the land of excess because the Americans really believe that there is no such thing as excess.

Failure is freedom.

I've seen the future. Everyone's dead.

For as long as there have been people, there have been ghosts.

In the war of attrition that is every life, there is only ever one victor.

The world is not beautiful nor ugly; it just is, and we project our moody interpretations onto it.

"Why are you laughing all the time?"
"Well, because I'm dying."

I am too Russian to enjoy existence.

Everything ends. To expect it not to end is in vain. So one should get comfortable with destruction.

And all anyone is really saying is “Love me.”

Death is implacable and approaching.

Still suffering delusions of mundanity.

Morality is fiction.

Fighting is surrogate fucking.

Death and taxes. Taxes, however, may be escaped by escaping society. Death may be escaped by escaping self.

Information comes from all sources, all equally reliable (id est: unreliable).

“Schnell! Schnell! Before the American archaeologist kills us all!”

Living has largely been a waste of my time.

Regarding Halloween decorations: If it looks like it would be on the set of The Addams Family, it's cool. If it looks like it would be on a kindergarten teacher's desk, it's tacky.

Nothing is irrevocable. Nothing is permanent, except for death. Which perhaps explains its weird appeal.

I do not own you, but I own you.

You are not my slave, but you are my slave.

“...in that thick Russian accent: 'Bad things happen. That is life. But there is no need to think about the bad things. Live. Live!'...”

Scribbling on paper
As if I had something worth saying

"You got that? It's for children."

"It's marketed for children. Anyone can use it. Marketing is not reality."

“There is a fourth jaguar.”

“Do you think you'll make it through another winter?”

Consider:

"If you get handed lemons... make lemonade!" But lemons are not the only ingredient in lemonade; also required is water and sugar. If all you are handed is lemons, then all you can make is lemon juice, sour to drink. Sugar is what makes lemonade sweet. The adage assumes that you are handed not only lemons but also sugar, or that you had a sufficient store of sugar prior. Without sugar, if you are handed lemons, you simply cannot make lemonade.

And of course, it commonly occurs that, both figuratively and literally, there is no sugar.

Sometimes there is not even water.

I don't like to give out a mediocre book, which is why my library is filled with mediocre books, because I give out all the good ones.

How precarious, life.

To tell the truth, there is no truth.

Acorn into oak.

“My life is not here. This is comfortable. My life is not meant to be comfortable.”

“There will be more.”

“There will be no more.”

Both equally ominous.

And equally vague.

And therefore equally meaningless.

Cardboard boxes, plastic bags, and extension cords: however many you have is five too short.

Life is killing me.

I do not ascribe meaning to mundane occurrences. I do not ascribe meaning to extraordinary events. (Existence is utterly and unutterably meaningless.)

That math evinces a divine, supra-human nature is not a certainty, but rather a philosophical supposition.

I would enjoy to retire to an empty place and study math.

"He's the monster."

"He's all that's human."

By the cover? I judge books by the spine.

“It's numbered by the days since I was born. Yes, my days are numbered. So are yours: you're just not keeping track.”

“It is a very potent message: All social taboos and mores are imaginary and invented and have no impact on the physical functioning of the universe.”

When you are laying dying

--as you will be--

what will you think about?

Pain rather than oblivion?

“Your poetry is depressing.”
“My poetry reflects existence. Existence is depressing.”

All words are merely references to other things.

“Take compliments, ignore insults... And you acknowledge the inconsistency of accepting the expressed opinions of others in certain arbitrary cases and rejecting the expressed opinions of others in certain other arbitrary cases?”

My understanding is that all lives are meaningless, tragi-comically.

“You know, it is impossible to distinguish sincerity from sarcasm over the Internet.”

There can be no intimacy between those who are not lovers, because there is no sex. There can be no intimacy between those who are lovers, because there is sex.

The summer comes again, to the winter's survivors.

Push, pull, coax, caress, entice... Must a conversation merely breathe, or should it gasp, pant, huff, gyrate and arc and wriggle, and finally whimper softly, gratefully...?

Freedom is a culturally constrained notion -- which means, there is no such thing.

Do not fail to feel yourself close to death at every moment. Act accordingly.

How to diagnose one's own insanity? The world makes sense to me, but it obviously makes a different sense to other people.

“How can you sit like that? You can't possibly be comfortable.”

“I am never comfortable. Thus, I can sit in any position.”

Militaries exist only to serve the political machinations of rich people, and by every account, the experience of soldiering amounts only to boredom, frustration, and seeing other people's intestines splattered about.

"This is a matter of national security. This is important."
"It's only important if you think any of that shit matters."
"A lot of people might die."
"No, all people will die. Whether they live another year or ten or two hundred is not important, except to themselves, and that is a matter of vanity."

Everyone is going to die. (Everyone you know is going to die. Everyone you love is going to die.) You know this, yet you are surprised by each instance of the gradual actualization of this.

For every thing I say, there are thousands of things I don't say, because no one would understand.

Have you ever had two men standing guard outside your door as you slept? No. Have you ever killed every person in the room? No. Have you ever been brutalized? Yes, of course you have.

Probabilities.

Death is our destiny.

“I don't care if anyone ever reads it. I simply want to write it.”

“Don't you forget what I am, which is a danger to every thought you think and every feeling you feel.”

“I don't want that stuff even described to me.”

“I can tell you what animal it came out of. It came out of a jaguar. I watched it come out of it.”

Syntax murky I am fine with.

Life is slow death.

after being up all night, I wake at 4:50 in the afternoon and write down these thoughts:

You are a guest at a large dinner with many guests, and you know that the food is poisoned. What do you do? Do you try to dissuade others from eating any way you can? Do you try to dissuade others from eating with the truth, and endure the suspicion that you poisoned the food? Do you excuse yourself from the dinner without explanation? Do you excuse yourself with explanation? Do you pretend to eat? Do you converse and laugh and feast and share fate with the rest of the diners?

Now here's the problem: Life is that dinner, everyone you know is at the dinner, and the food is poisoned.

You can have a carefree life as long as you have nothing to do with other people.

The horror is the pointlessness of the horror.