Still frames from nonexistent documentaries

It's nice to have someone to talk to.

I’d have corroded from the inside if it weren’t for art. Nothing else is enough.

What are we other than barely distinct heaps of ideas and impressions?

Every so often, I have to remind myself that I exist.

Even more overwhelming is when you mean so much to someone, but not in a way true to who you are.

It’s overwhelming to realize that you mean so much to anyone.

I’m going to a quiet place so I

can listen to the sounds inside my mind.

There is a melancholic happiness in bettering oneself having better recognized that it might all end in barely a moment.

Nostalgia for the past makes us forget how through our prejudice we have hurt other people. We must not continue down that path.

It’s okay to retreat into a safe, quiet place and listen to yourself think every once in a while.

I see sadness in happy things because I can’t help but imagine that they will come unceremoniously to a forgotten end.

If everyone is becoming nostalgic, does anything remain of the present?

Now, perhaps more than ever, do I hold dear the value of human life and the wide possibilities of human experience.

I mourn for those lost years when I was compelled to live other than as I am.

When I think about the dreadful uncertainty, the sadness of remaining as unrealized as I am now looks more appealing.

Every so often, I wonder to myself why I even have a name. It just feels inconsequential for my beinghood.