I’m wondering if there is a formula for good writing, or maybe a recipe… Take one part panic, two parts shame, stir well. Bake at 600 degrees until sweating profusely.

If I could stop constantly trying to inject meaning into this meaningless existence, I’d enjoy it a lot more.

A lantern made of fireflies next to the bed is a lovely sight to fall asleep to, but in the morning all you have is a jar of dead bugs.

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