Book: Survivors. Page 1

The hardest blessing you give up is silence.

The secret is that every time you will feel the pain less and less, until, until you lose the ability to feel anything.

The hotel told me brother, it is a large house where many people live, eat and sleep, but no one each other did not know. He said that described most families in the outside world.

No, I'm not crazy, I just want some proof that death is not the end. Even if crazed zombies grabbed me in some dark hall one night, even if they tear me apart, it still won't be the absolute end. Will still be some consolation.

I want to be walking past the marble slab covering a crypt and hear something scratching and struggling inside. I flatten my ear cold against the marble and wait all night. That's why I'm really here.

The secret is to not allow the imagination to drive you crazy.

I still like to think that the world is getting better. Although I know it's not. I still want people around better, although I know that this will never happen. And I still like to think is there anything I can do to people and the world still become better.

No, everybody thinks their whole life should be at least as much fun as Masturbation.

Do you realize that our mistrust of the future makes it hard to break with the past.

Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be. Every time you fall down the stairs - it's your choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you are confirming your desire to live.

I can't trust someone's brother, if I have a phone, or stone.

People forget that the road to nowhere also begins with the first step.

Last thing I need is sensitivity.
There are condoms, lubricated with local anesthetic for a prolonged act. What a paradox. You feel nothing, but can go for hours.
It seems that the meaning is lost.
I want my whole life has been greased with a local anesthetic.

Part of my strategy for courting fertility Hollis is to look ugly on purpose, and I just need to get dirty. Look in the rough. Hard to get dirty gardening when you never touch the ground, but my clothes smell like poison, and his nose is a little sunburned. With the wire of a plastic Calla Lily, I scoop a handful of the hard dead soil, and I RUB it in your hair. I wedge the dirt in under my fingernails.
God forbid I should try and look good for fertility. The worst strategy I could pursue is self-improvement. It would be a big mistake to dress up, to endeavour to comb your hair, maybe even borrow some chic clothes for the man who I work for, anything from 100-percent cotton and pastel colours, brush your teeth, put it on what they call deodorant and go to the Columbia Memorial Mausoleum for the second time, still looking ugly, but trying to show that I really tried to look better.
So here I am. Will not be better. Take it or leave it.
Like I don't care what she thinks.
Looking good is not part of the big plan. I want to look like untapped potential. I strive to achieve naturalness. Realism. After all this I would look like as a raw material. Not desperate and needy, and ripe with potential. Not thirsty. However, I want to look like I'm worth the effort. Washed but not ironed. Clean, but not polished. Confident but humble.
I want to look. The truth doesn't glitter and Shine.
This is passive aggression in its purest form.
The idea is to make my ugliness to work for me. Establish a low baseline for contrast with what comes after. Before and After. The frog and the Prince.