12-28-2015

For the most part, it is impossible to tell when someone is at their worst. They wade about their days mostly unseen until something strikes out against the commonality of the world. They are rewarded and punished for these acts, often interchangeably, for it is not the act itself that matters but the level of disruption.

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The game which leaves the perimeters of its deck of cards, its chess pieces, its board, its very frame. 

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There are those who say 'life is an illusion' and despair evermore in the aftermath of this revelation, rather than mustering the energy to wallow in illusions of their own. The revelation causing them despair is only ever the beginning. 

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I would find fault only in that experimental art which sought to intentionally alienate the spectator. We come to even our most nonsensical dreams fully engaged. 

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How much are the majority of books worth aside from a few worthy scenes and pretty sentences? Some books are read as if on a search to find such passages. 

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Her look of alarm calms thieves. 

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The writer who sighs with relief when he has nothing to write. 

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He goes out to meet his every mood. 

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I am as fascinated by people who are perfectly selfish as I am by people who are legitimately afraid of themselves. If I could only manage to frighten myself, I suspect, I could fold solipsism in half. 

We most resent ourselves when suffering an injustice, for we allowed it to happen. Time only offers many purmutations of that which was not done. 

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Over and over, I read and write kind words, as if worried that yet another look will reveal their having vanished or the fact that they never existed--an event coextensive to their truth. 

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The novel will not die due to lack of readers. However, they may lose faith.

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How delighted I am that philosophy is getting swallowed up by other practices. Psychology and science have the rich topology of Greek myths. Everything else has pulled from half-myths not yet realized.

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I'm not sympathetic to someone who despises a writer from top to bottom. Writers, even unknown ones, are easy targets. Even remarks delivered to them justly seem crude. 

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There have been several pivotal moments in my life. One involved a strange way of seeing the world, a sudden envelopment in life which caused me to wade into its density with a hyper attentive devotion--time slowed down. In the passing days, this odd, anamistic sensation receded just as I began to suspect that it was the whole point of my life. I felt it was necessary to remember that sensation, as if I could still glean sustenance from it even after it was gone. The other pivotal moment in my life worked toward an opposite direction but achieved a similar effect. Everything seemed to drain of its corporeality and solidity. I stopped seeing the world as anything created by ideas and understood only the simplest truths. I sat for long moments perfectly content not to think, or at the very least, to think about not thinking. Though I don't often reside in either state of mind even when I try, the very knowledge that both states are possible because I have lived them fills me with great joy and a hope beyond my own understanding. 

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The thoughts most worth having are those which evade you the more you try to remember them. 

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The only thing Heiddegger had to offer us was a fear of symbols, masked as a problem far more dire, dressed in obscurity, and delivered through an artificial language designed to feel cozy--but cozy as a warm blanket during a scary story. 

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The world has made heresy quite difficult. 

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There is no such thing as a contemporary experience. 

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If life caused in us as much longing or fear as our best and worst dreams. 

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How different reality would look if we regarded, not first causes, but first intentions.