Quiet Is Here And All In Me.

Now When I Die, I Shall Only Be Dead.

Memory Was Such A Worthless Thing, Really. Nothing It Dealt With Was Attainable. It Was Concerned With Phantom Acts And Feelings, With All That Was Uncapturable Except In Thought. It Was Without Satisfaction.

…those Who’ve Marred Their Appearance In Any Way By Their Actions In Life Aren’t Forced To Witness That Marring. If They Were, They’d Become Self-conscious And Be Unable To Concentrate On Improving Themselves.

I Could Never Write About Strange Kingdoms. I Could Never Do Harry Potter Or Anything Like That. Even When I Did Science-fiction, I Didnt Write About Foreign Planets And Distant Futures. I Certainly Never Did Fantasies About Trolls Living Under Bridges.

Each Memory Was Brought To Life Before Me And Within Me. I Could Not Avoid Them. Neither Could I Rationalize, Explain Away. I Could Only Re-experience With Total Cognizance, Unprotected By Pretense. Self Delusion Was Impossible, Truth Exposed In This Blinding Light. Nothing As I Thought It Had Been. Nothing As I Hoped It Had Been. Only As It Had Been.