You know the truth, the brick-hard, irregular, slithery surface of truth.
My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression.
Love is another name for sex.
It is the basic condition of life, to be required to violate your own identity.
Everything is true. Everything anybody has ever thought.
Empathy must be limited to herbivores or anyhow omnivores who could depart from a meat diet. Because, ultimately, the empathic gift blurred the boundaries between hunter and victim, between the successful and the defeated.