We give regard to the universe. That’s what makes us sentient.

I feel the fizz in my brain, and know this is a kind of life-peak. If you could choose the entity you would inhabit, who wouldn’t want to be a healthy middle-aged human?

I want randomly-playable folders in my iPod. I am the baby boomer demographic: my every whim should become reality.

Despite my reverence for science, I sometimes suspect that it (like the Social Sciences) is riven with paradigms.

One of the great lessons of the universe: Things are more complex than you think.

There’s the flame of the word, but Proust weaves in an extra dimension: the word’s fragrant, billowing cloud.

Generation X were only half a generation, but they were impatient. They looked forward to the time when they could be even more selfish than the baby boomers. But, the way the world’s going, fucked over by the post-war generation, they will be robbed of that. The boomers will bequeath what’s left to their kids, and leave GenX nowhere.

You die off at some point. There’s you, then abruptly there’s no you. You. Not You. Universe. No universe.

One’s entire life is run by the imminence of death.

I continue to respect TS Eliot’s writing, but I can now barely read him.