Depression is here with me. I felt its hand on my shoulder as I walked against the traffic with my coffee in my hand. I should have kept walking. Every time depression hits me, I try to understand where it came from and why it’s here. It’s easier to deal with now that I know better than to try and talk to someone about it. That used to fuck me up badly, trying to explain myself, like talking to a girl as if that’s going to do any good. What can anyone do for you in person. Records are better than people. Empty rooms are better than fake talk and noise polluted time and space.

There is only one truly serious philosophical problem, & that is suicide. Judging whether life is or not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.