One could only damage oneself through the harm one did to others. One could never get directly at oneself.
Though impervious to the sacred, I loved magic. The cinema was a suspect appearance that I loved perversely for what it still lacked. That streaming was everything, it was nothing, it was everything reduced to nothing.
Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.
Perhaps there is nothing in the world I cling to as much as this feeling of adventure; but it comes when it pleases; it is gone so quickly and how empty I am once it has left. Does it, ironically, pay me these short visits in order to show me that I have wasted my life?
What we might call everyday morality is exclusive of ethical anguish.
He is always becoming, and if it were not for the contingency of death, he would never end.