27.

"Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen."

- Synedoche, New York.

26.

Sommerdrømmene forsvinner med nattsolen. Jeg fyller opp hullet med nye drømmmer.

25.

Uken jeg har sett nesten mest frem til i løpet av sommeren, det er den uken jeg blir syk. Fabelaktig. Bra for meg at jeg er nokså rutinert når det kommer til litt for mange timer med filmer og serier. Også bra at jeg brukte dagene i forveien på noe fint.

Jeg har egentlig ikke mer fornuftig å si, tror sykdom gjør sånt med en. Jeg har lyst til å bli flink i noe, må bare finne ut hva.