Crying must release endorphins or something. I wish I could cry for longer.

I think panic is a decent strategy.

I think of it as a very dramatic form of giving up.

I think it’s hard not to experience your life as a thing that happens to you.

I think it’s fooling yourself into thinking you’re thinking.

I do all this mental preparing to the point I think it already happened.

I think it’s largely unconscious, feels like a collective decision, not a chain of events.

I think it’s philosophical and physical and have not gotten a good answer.

Everything reminds me of it, but I don’t know what “it” is.

We Taste Nothing Pure

Saying outre-mer really gives one the feeling of looking wistfully out to sea.

It’s almost onomatopoeia.

In Korea, someone told me, people go do karaoke in the middle of the day and don’t drink or anything. Not even for fun, almost. Just out of habit.

At an art talk, the critic asked the audience who thought of themselves as artists. I almost reflexively raised my hand. He meant painters.

There’s a culture of anxiety that is almost encouraging: “Go ahead! Feel bad!”

I almost always feel better the day after feeling really bad, but then the next day, I feel a little worse again.

When Robert Lowell read Sylvia Plath’s last poems he said they make one feel “almost all other poetry is about nothing.”

I finally learned how to read in my dreams—now some dreams are mostly language.

It’s almost erotic.

The almost fictive level of detail is disturbing.

I almost applaud the perversity of showing disaster movies on planes.

But planes aren’t dangerous, compared to almost anything else.

You can only be bored almost to death.

I’m almost looking forward to it.

Notoriously, someone dies from alcohol poisoning almost every year.

Almost picked up and drank hot candle wax.

Almost started crying and then got distracted.

It’s almost like love depends on a little suffering.

A bottomless, almost Catholic appetite for being scolded.

It’s almost like an intentional setup, almost self-sabotage, almost superstitious. It’s almost mystical.

It almost feels like you can’t say anything interesting about it.

It’s not boring to me exactly but it almost feels like something to live through rather than do.

I almost adore it.

I hate it so much sometimes it almost brings me joy.

In Nature

I can think, but rarely of nature.

I look with my back to the landscape,

As if in a Claude glass.

A cheat code. Ninety-nine lives,

Which might as well be infinite

Unless this isn’t the first one?

Nietzsche said There’s a rollicking kindness

That looks like malice.

I ascribe that “kindness” to fate.

A breeze carries unknown pathogens,

Information that can’t want to die

Because it’s not alive.

What it wants is desire.

A barrier to crossing