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The only release from standing that I could ever hope to achieve would be to die, rot, and let my bones fall in a heap on the grid floor.
At the root of jealousy is a fear of abandonment, and we had no possibility of abandonment in that place.
Three people, a triangulated complexity, strife and forgiveness, alliance and conflict, a polyphonic piece of music sometimes dreadful in its dissonance, sometimes uplifting in its harmony—heaven.
It isn’t heaven, it isn’t hell, it’s simply where we are, and it stinks.
It stinks literally. It stinks and it hurts. And the people here are driving me crazy.
If death hands you rancid shit strewn with human hair, make an escape ladder. Is that a variant of the adage?
To the extent that heaven above is isolation, it seems to be hell. To the extent that hell below is a crowd, it apparently is heaven. Maybe we are condemned to an endless nagging sense of discomfort balanced against comfort, satisfaction against the itch to escape.
