Eliot Schrefer

Nowhere is truly empty. The thought makes me feel lavishly alone. Somehow, space is so deeply melancholy that it’s not at all sad, like a note so low it ceases to sound. Even my sorrow about my insignificance feels insignificant.

It’s like my own mind is an abandoned house that I’m exploring.

I like my private time as much as anyone else, but alone is no way to spend a life.

If OS goes down, we’re dead a thousand different ways.