Mad dash to nowhere
My flesh looked like it wasn’t trying. It looked like it hated being part of me.
These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light—the soul’s certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
David Foster Wallace,
Perhaps I am no one.
True, I have a body
and I cannot escape from it.
I would like to fly out of my head,
but that is out of the question.
The Poet Of Ignorance
You know how advice is. You only want it if it agrees with what you wanted to do anyway.
The Winter of Our Discontent