The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any center to it. No path, no line. There are great spaces where you pretend there used to be someone, but it’s not true, there was no one.
“Solitude breeds taciturnity; that every body knows; who so taciturn as authors, taken as a race?”
Herman Melville | White-Jacket; or, The World in a Man-of-War
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