Every day you amass knowledge in a frantic race against death that death must win. You want to find out everything in the time you have; yet in the end you wonder why you bothered, it'll all be lost. I keep trying to explain this to anyone who will listen.
She doesn’t think she’s worthy to live. But she doesn’t realize, she is life.
Anyone who conceives of writing as an agreeable stroll towards a middle-class life-style will never write anything but crap.
I became as hard as whipcord, but with a brain like cottonwool.
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