A book should be like a lot of spit. But who would publish me? Who publishes a person who’s sort of soaking in pain, who can’t always walk, employed only pretty much in name?
“My thought is me: that’s why I can’t stop. I exist because I think… and I can’t stop myself from thinking. At this very moment — it’s frightful — if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire.”
Jean-Paul Sartre | Nausea