I do nothing because there is nothing to do, and nothing to be done, and to believe that there is leads a path to misery.

Thinking is a rarity.

Aggaga.

A sound of harried assent.

Life is a booger, but oblivion has Nothing going for it.

What is love, anyway? Hell. Death.

Identity is an illusion, a vanity.

I can say the things within me until I die and you can listen to every one of them and you will still not know who I am. Nor I you. Nor anyone anyone.

I could tell you I love you. I could tell you I hate you. I could tell you I am not capable of loving, nor of hating. It all feels honest -- so how do I know what is honest?

Regardless of diseases, your body will break down and you will die.

There is no 'forward' to go to. There is only now.

What am I doing? I'm waiting on death, and so are you, whether or not you understand so.

Ambition is for suckers and Americans. It is vanity to believe that your particular life is important and that anything you do is of consequence.

All is emptiness.

Spend more time in the library. It makes life bigger; the possibilities flow into your head.

Make it grand, bold, preposterous.

As unresponsive as a corpse, and as provoking of the same disturbed reactions in people.

I'm frustrated by my narrow human intelligence. I'm trapped within it.

Look to the future! Farther, farther. Look far forward into the future and everything is dead, all existence has ceased.

I'm beyond the fate of the world.

Forsake the world.

“There's nothing here.”

“There's nothing anywhere.”

Hell opened underneath us and there was no way to escape falling in.

People are always dying, in every moment, in this moment.

Inside the hull of the warship when the shell detonates.

Pieces, pieces, pieces...

...a philosophical indifference to existence...

Here, our gentleness is tough; our toughness is gentle.

Action so often accomplishes nothing.

It's best if at the end of the day one is sweaty and dirty.

I drink too much and yet not enough.

Have you been educated in the winding tunnels of mind-funking?

Literature is almost never polite.

I am a wintry soul.

No, I am a rainy soul. No, I am not a soul, without personhood. No, I am the only soul, the everything. But then what would that make you, if anything?

Accepting as foregone the conclusion that you are as hippie as hippie can be, which parts of your hippieness do you denounce? The general grunginess? The transience and shallow connectivity of hippie relationships? The non-productivity of the hippie lifestyle, while the squares grow the food and mend the roads and engineer the furnaces that we hippies survive by?

Do you live with guilt? Do you live with loneliness? Do you live with dirt? is I guess what I'm saying.

All experience is cosmically disappointing.

“Hi, my name is Radigan. My hobbies are embroidery, racecar driving, and heroin.”

There is no complete joy. Every joy is leavened by the immeasurable sadness of its ephemerality.

“What does it feel like to be a man?”
“Painful.”

Don't play Russian roulette with an automatic pistol.

I feel a great sadness for lives not lived. All the decisions made resulting in all the lives precluded...

We live in a harsh gleaming world, the noise is constant, and the light [I forgot the rest]

But got to be somewhere
And nowhere for too long

Nothing accomplished; nothing to be accomplished.

Orange!: blaze orange, fire orange, Buddhist orange, orangepeel orange, naranja.

flense the meat from my bones

“I'm really basically an artist. Which just means, I'm not socially useful.”

When you don't fit into your own culture, it is easy to not fit into other cultures.

J watches romantic comedy movies; he does not watch war movies because he has lived through war. I watch war movies; I do not watch romantic comedy movies because I have lived through romantic comedy.

While you may wish for many attributes, never wish for keenness of comprehension.

Grow old, become hairy.

pray to Satan, my Dark Lord

he doesn't exist, and you don't either

What you remember is what there was
What you perceive is what there is

the steering column through your chest cavity
You feel it only once

Baatar stepped his right foot to the edge, shifted his weight to his right foot and pivoted on his right foot. In his pivot, his gaze swept into the abyss that was now directly off his right boot and Baatar the Immortal Monster, the Slayer, the Will, the Psyche, the Lust for Living, the Hero of His Own Story, the Only Character in the Only Story, paused. Baatar paused and stared. The tip of his sword dipped to the stone floor. There was Nothing to be seen.

But something must matter, mustn't it? And I must care about something, mustn't I? I care about beauty, but surely beauty doesn't matter. I care about poetry. Nothing could matter less than poetry.

Intelligence cannot be faked. But I try.

Do coincidences mean anything to you? I'll offer: they mean nothing to me. No evidence of secret order to the universe, no guiding forces, no supernatural intelligences. The human mind, so successful at increasing the evolutionary adaptability of the human species because it is so adept at identifying patterns, is also so flawed by the same talent because it so often sees patterns where none exist.

But maybe you believe in Magic?

What a great love I once had.

What a common belief.

I like listening to the goings-on of the world at 2:30 at night.

Tell me about it, the loneliness of literature.

I do not recycle for the same reason that I do not play the lottery: because I understand mathematics.

The United States produces annually 254,000,000.00 short tons of garbage. One United States resident produces annually 0.84 short tons of garbage.(1)

For comparison, represent the garbage that one U.S. resident annually produces as one second. The garbage that the U.S. annually produces is then represented as nine and a half years. The difference that one second makes over a span of nine and a half years is incomprehensibly inconsequential. The garbage that any single U.S. resident produces is incomprehensibly inconsequential.

To act, one must be so vain as to believe that one's actions are of consequence; to recycle, you must believe that you make a difference, despite the mathematical truth that you do not make a difference.

Humans motivate their actions through egregious irrationality or outrageous vanity.

To be rational and undeluded about your relative value as a member of human society is to be philosophically closer to oblivion.

(1) United States Environmental Protection Agency, Municipal Solid Waste Generation, Recycling, and Disposal in the United States: Facts and Figures for 2007

Is it really okay? It's a missed connection, isn't it? It's a fear and a sadness, and a sense that each individual is not worth so very much, because there are so many individuals, and how to distinguish them?

People are generally not interested in other people, so to be forthcoming is to be boring, because no one really cares. At the same time, people are generally vain, so they like to be forthcoming. This means that people are generally boring to one another.

The most difficult thing about being alone is remaining alone; other people regularly challenge your aloneness.

Humans are not very interesting creatures. Their behavior is simple and repetitive, and established and basically unchangeable by the time they're eight years old.

I have a bad and worsening habit of ignoring people.

I have a good and improving habit of ignoring people.

What I write is not disturbing. Conscious existence is disturbing.

I don't understand other humans' emotions and motivations. I can perceive them and ape them and cognitively diagram them, but I can't overlook the pointlessness. These soft organic unhardy precariously organized creatures are going to die. They know they are going to die. Why do they not act like they are going to die?

I have a terminal condition. It is my life. Why does this condition bother me when the same condition does not bother you? You do not think about the circumscribed epoch of your life. I think about it.

Nothing exists beyond this moment, so nothing can be lost.

I do not like religious fantasy, and all religious thought is fantasy.

You do not want to know my thoughts, you would not like them, you would never accept them, and, most hopeless of all, you could not understand them.

On every occasion, accept chewing gum when it is offered.

Maintain in your possession a tangible symbol of life yet to come. A train schedule, a folded map, an unopened condom—each in its iconization of promise may serve as a talisman against daily pain.

We don't bury goods with the dead; we keep those for the living. We don't believe in sentiment; we don't feel it. We don't lose time over emotion for there is only limited time for action. We don't weep, we don't agonize, we don't idealize; we kill whenever there is benefit in it. We eat you, because you are made of meat.

I like you because you don't know who I am.

Until every child already in existence lives without suffering, there is no justification for creating another child.

Everything at four o'clock a.m. is eerily beautiful.

The laughter of others reminds me that death is approaching.

Every laugh is a laugh in the face of death. A laugh is a rebuff of death. A laugh is wholly irrational, as life in an expanding, freezing, and dying universe is.

Death -- obliteration -- comes regardless.

...like almost everything else humans do, it's pointless.

I seek what is unfindable.

Theological noncognitivism: 'god' is an incomprehensible idea. How can something exist outside of the natural world, unmeasureable, unknowable, unperceivable, yet have an effect upon the natural world? It is incoherent. Yet there is something that exists with certainty outside of the natural world and has an effect upon the natural world: thought. So now the idea of 'god' is thinkable. And because all of the universe is created by the consciousness and exists only as thought, we have in fact found 'god the creator.' It is the ukhaan; it is I.

Choosing to not act is as worthy as choosing to act; choosing to cease is as worthy as choosing to live.

"The ineluctable destiny of each of us is to be forgotten."

Existence itself -- any kind of existence -- is horrific.

Pretending that the universe has meaning does give it meaning, but it is just pretend, but it is real, because reality is pretend.

I am not special; there are thousands identical to me. You are not special; there are thousands identical to you. But I held your head in my hands, and we were gentle, and the memory of that, lived or imagined, is the only thing that is real and certain and persisting, and important.

"I don't want your god; I would cut your god into steaks and eat him with horseradish."

Life is much easier if you don't have anything to do with other people.

accepting nothing
challenging the void itself to prove itself
and nothing to support him or catch him
spins through the void
true intellectual fortitude is required to embrace uncertainty
is independent, free in the world, and unconcerned with the ridiculousness that has come before

You see, the atheist derives childish reassurance from a logically unsupportable system of belief concerning the nature of existence, and in this way is no different from your average born-again Jesus-fellating Christian, secure in his “knowledge” of something that cannot be known, whereas the agnostic exhibits true intellectual fortitude through the difficult and uncomfortable acceptance of all-pervading uncertainty. The atheist mind rests untroubled in its cradle of certainty, spitting up all over logic and using rationalism as its diaper while cuddling self-satisfaction to its uncreased cheek, but the agnostic mind careens through the existential void at uncontrollable velocities in defiance of any effort to delimit what is and is not possible, demanding each viewpoint (including cherished atheism, precious and sacrosanct to the weaker minds) to prove itself, and remaining unsurprised though bemused as each fails, and the uncompromising agnostic mind rockets ever onward toward unknown destiny.

I remember.

You are but a muse to me; the world is unreal to me.

It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence; it has to do with existential indifference.

Much poetry that is designated as "poetry" is uncreative, uninteresting free verse; song lyrics, however, rigidly adhere to the poetic standards of rhyme and meter. Songwriter-as-poet and lyrics-as-poetry are particularly apparent in hip-hop or rap, with the musicality reduced to a minimum, and the merit of the art judged not on musicianship but on the imagery and poetry of the verse. Hip-hop is produced and is popular in what seems every language in the world. It's cool to be a "hip-hop artist;" it's dorky to be a "poet," but broad appreciation of evocative and linguistically acrobatic poetry is certain.

The only incontestable fact of existence: I cannot know whether I am alone.

In order to live, I must ignore the only incontestable fact of existence.

I like girls who know how to enjoy themselves. I love women who know how to enjoy men.

Now tell me something that you know you shouldn't tell me, but that you really want to tell me.

"Do you drink?"
"I should."

No! I want to wake up Sunday mornings in white sheets entwined with you.

No! I want to wake up face down in dusty alleys in Polynesia.

No. I do not want to wake up.

I enjoy general and specific perversion.