Haruki Murakami. Wonderland without brakes and end of the world (№ 5284)

I kept losing things, people, feelings, memories. Figuratively speaking, my life is reminiscent of a long coat with a hopelessly leaky pockets. What needle and thread no pick - darn useless. Sit, think, how else to get out, and someone will turn up to your window and shout: "Your life is a complete zero!" And even argue he had nothing.
Still, if I could start all over again, probably my life would not differ from the present. Because I, along with his Dating life is me and no one else. And besides, I go nowhere else. Let someone hang me, and someone will throw myself; let my wonderful feelings, dignity, dreams die again, finding no use - I still can't be anybody but yourself.