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As men we took part in town politics and maintained the town dump—very similar jobs, now that I think about it.
I thought to myself, there’s time. We always think that, I guess. Then time runs out.
“Thoughts don’t matter to us. They come, they pass, they are replaced by others.
“I’m sorry for you. Your world is a living breath in a universe that is mostly filled with deadlights.”
What the fuck is talent, anyway?
nothing can give you what isn’t already there. This is axiomatic.
It’s all right to want what you can’t have. You learn to live with it. I tell myself that, and mostly I believe it.
