Eliot Schrefer

Nowhere is truly empty. The thought makes me feel lavishly alone. Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.

It’s like my own mind is an abandoned house that I’m exploring.

I like my private time as much as anyone else, but alone is no way to spend a life.

If OS goes down, we’re dead a thousand different ways.

He’s slow to smile, but when he does, it lingers.

Nothing can be trusted. No, it’s even worse than that: nothing can be known.

My mother was wrong. Minerva was wrong. Intimacy is the only shield against insanity. Intimacy, not knowledge. Intimacy, not power.
I will unravel here.

If I go outside, I die before I get any answers. I exist only in a theoretical way, like a point on a coordinate plane. I am the simulation.

I wish I could share dying with him.

Maybe my heart can be a more insightful organ than my brain.