A writer—and, I believe, generally all persons—must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.
Sidewalk graffiti, San Francisco
i have such girlishly small fingers why
Finally cut this fucking bottle. Now I have blues guitar and a flower vase
Lonely people are usually lonely not because of hideous deformity or odor or obnoxiousness […] Lonely people tend, rather, to be lonely because they decline to bear the psychic costs of being around other humans. They are allergic to people. People affect them too strongly.
Lonely people at home still crave sights and scenes, company.
— David Foster Wallace, “E Unibus Pluram”, A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again: Essays and Arguments (via autobibliography