Book: Invincible Sun

Today, from the height of my thirties, I would probably say that happiness is that second when you believe in the possibility and feasibility of your happiness, such a bizarre recursive loop in our brain organ. And there is probably nothing else in the mirrors among which we wander.

Baby, you can't think about life while sitting aside. Life is what you do to the world, and the world does to you. Like sex. And if you step aside and start thinking about it, the very subject of thought disappears. emptiness remains in the place of life. That is why all these contemplators, who are sitting on their butts against the wall, talk about emptiness. Their life has simply run out - and they believe that they have understood everything about it. It's useless to think about life. Life can only be lived.

The guy is cyclical like a washing machine. His personality is usually poorly written software to a small dick.

My heart, even at idle, gives a small positive exhaust, and those who fall under it will be quite loved by themselves - but temporarily and quickly replaceable, like a tire.

I love all sorts of symbolism. That is, when life rhymes. It even seems to me that these rhymes can be faked - this is magic, sympathetic and very sympathetic to me. We kind of explain to the fat-assed clumsy fate what we want her to be, and sometimes she understands the hint.