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Anyone who falls in love is searching for missing pieces of themselves. So anyone who's in love gets sad when they think of their lover. It's like stepping back inside a room you have fond memories of, one you haven't seen in a long time. It's just a natural feeling. You're not the person who discovered that feeling, so don't go trying to patent it, okay?

Works that have a certain imperfection to them have an appeal for that you're attracted to Soseki's The Miner. There's something in it that draws you in, more than more fully realized novels like Kokoro or Sanshiro. You discover something about that work that tugs at your heart-or maybe we should say that work discovers you.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to live somewhere with a garden. I’ll be old but skilled enough to still have some consultancy work to pay for the space to grow real food. Hands in the dirt again. Doing something real. No people around. Yeah, that’s the dream. Strange how the things we rail against and hate in our youth can be the things we crave as we get older.

I made a mistake when I was young and didn’t know how the world worked and I have paid for it. Many, many times over.

Don’t believe anything on the news feeds. It’s all just a circus for the masses.

I’ve grown out of seeking emotional self-destruction. But even now the doubts are slithering in, making me question whether the hellish foundation my life is built on genuinely equates to coping.

I know enough to never take journalists at their word.

Nobody does emotional distancing from reprehensible behavior better than the British, after all.

Show me a person who doesn’t have ongoing problems and I’ll show you an AI.

The priest didn’t have one of the magic gems stitched into his head though, because he thought that talking to everyone else meant that you never listened to yourself anymore.

He doesn’t answer. I can’t stand these little silences from him. They’re too loud.

Everybody is on a leash. Some are more obvious than others.