I Totally Relate To Tom

I Don't Want To Care. If I Care About Things, It'll Just Be Worse, It'll Just Be Another Thing To Worry About. It's Less Painful If I Don't Care.

I Had All The Characteristics Of A Human Being—flesh, Blood, Skin, Hair—but My Depersonalization Was So Intense, Had Gone So Deep, That My Normal Ability To Feel Compassion Had Been Eradicated, The Victim Of A Slow, Purposeful Erasure. I Was Simply Imitating Reality, A Rough Resemblance Of A Human Being, With Only A Dim Corner Of My Mind Functioning

History Is Sinking And Only A Very Few Seem Dimly Aware That Things Are Getting Bad.

A Curtain Of Stars, Miles Of Them, Are Scattered, Glowing, Across The Sky And Their Multitude Humbles Me, Which I Have A Hard Time Tolerating. She Shrugs And Nods After I Say Something About Forms Of Anxiety. It's As If Her Mind Is Having A Hard Time Communicating With Her Mouth, As If She Is Searching For A Rational Analysis Of Who I Am, Which Is, Of Course, An Impossibility: There... Is... No... Key.

Writing A Novel That Works Is An Extremely Difficult Thing To Do. It Requires A Level Of Skill And Dedication That Always Surprises Me.