The Only Effort Worth Making

The Act Of Living Had Been Enjoyable; At Some Point When I Was Not Paying Attention, It Had Turned Into A Different Sort Of Experience, To Whose Grimness I Had Grown So Accustomed That I Now Took It For Granted.

Because Neither She Nor Port Had Ever Lived A Life Of Any Kind Of Regularity, They Had Both Made The Fatal Error Of Coming Hazily To Regard Time As Non-existent. One Year Was Like Another Year. Eventually Everything Would Happen.

Everyone Is Isolated From Everyone Else. The Concept Of Society Is Like A Cushion To Protect Us From The Knowledge Of That Isolation. A Fiction That Serves As An Anesthetic.

The Only Thing That Makes Life Worth Living Is The Possibility Of Experiencing Now And Then A Perfect Moment. And Perhaps Even More Than That, It's Having The Ability To Recall Such Moments In Their Totality, To Contemplate Them Like Jewels.

Not All The Ravages Caused By Our Merciless Age Are Tangible Ones. The Subtler Forms Of Destruction, Those Involving Only The Human Spirit, Are The Most To Be Dreaded.