Perhaps kids really did come into the world trailing clouds of glory, as Wordsworth had so confidently proclaimed, but they also shit in their pants until they learned better.
I’d be the best rich person. Seriously. I’d be the perfect combination of frivolous and sensible. Money is so wasted on the wealthy.
I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others-young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.
Anything with the power to make you laugh over thirty years later isn’t a waste of time. I think something like that is very close to immortality.
I feel an all-consuming feeling that we’re laying our world to waste and there’s little I can do about it except say there’s nothing I can do and eat Indian curry.